221 Bennet Street
by London Belle
Summary: A rough, Sherlockian interpretation of the Jane Austen classic, Pride and Prejudice, featuring Sherlolly (with Sherlock as Darcy and Molly as Lizzie), John/Mary (as Bingley and Jane, respectively), and a few other pairs, too! [rated T for mild language]
1. Prologue

**Characters:**

_For those familiar with the original story of Pride and Prejudice (belonging to Jane Austen), you will recognize the names of characters from the work written next to characters from the BBC's Sherlock (belonging to Moffat, Gatiss, and Conan Doyle). I've done my best to properly 'cast' characters and hope that you can see a resemblance from book to television!_

Mrs. Hudson - Mrs. Bennet

Molly Hooper - Lizzie Bennet

Mary Morstan - Jane Bennet

Irene Adler - Lydia Bennet

Sally Donovan - Charlotte Lucas

Sherlock Holmes - Mr. Darcy

Mycroft Holmes - Georgiana Darcy

John Watson - Mr. Bingley

Janine - Caroline Bingley

Anthea - Louisa Hurst

Andersen - Mr. Collins

Jim Moriarty - Mr. Wickham

Mrs. Holmes - Lady Catherine de Bourgh

Gregory Lestrade - Colonel Fitzwilliam

**"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."**

**~Jane Austen, ****_Pride and Prejudice_**

**ooooo**

The inhabitants of Saint Bartholomew's consist of a mother and her three daughters.

Mrs. Hudson is entirely focused on securing husbands for her girls, as they are much too plain to take on the task themselves.

Molly Hudson is stronger than she looks, and though she is intelligent, she tends to jump to conclusions, an altogether terrible, prejudicial habit.

Mary Hudson is a beautiful young lady with a kind heart, adored by her younger sister and also by more than a few men, despite what she herself will tell you.

Irene Hudson is flirtatious, confident, and a little immature, taking after her mother in most aspects. She likes to socialize, always trying to place herself in the center of attention.

The inhabitants of Scotland Yard consist of a wealthy bachelor and his two sisters.

John Watson is a dashing doctor with a lovely set of manners, the polar opposite of his very unlikely best friend.

Janine Watson is a bit fond of herself, in the possession of a rather nasty jealous streak, and hopelessly infatuated with a certain consulting detective.

Anthea Watson is quite different from her younger sister, mature and pretty with an impeccable grace about her at all times. (Janine simply cannot for the life of her figure out how her sister does it.)

The inhabitants of 221 Bennet Street consist of a consulting detective and his elder brother.

Sherlock Holmes is a highly functioning sociopath, not a psychopath, thank you very much, and he wishes you would _think_ instead of bore him with your nonsense. That is all. (John Watson is the only exception, seeing as he is one of the only two people who will put up with him no matter what. The second happens to occupy a minor position in the British government. Confidentiality laws prevent any further disclosure.)

Mycroft Holmes is always the diplomat, and he prides himself on staying composed no matter what. One must, if one is to deal with the above on a regular basis. Of course, having an umbrella helps, too.

**ooooo**


	2. Chapter 1

"Molly? Mary? Irene?" Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs. "Please come down to the parlor, girls!"

She waited anxiously as her daughters descended the staircase, wringing her hands and looking positively distraught.

"Now, girls, there's been talk of a man wishing to move in to Scotland Yard, that old house over by the Winchesters. They've fixed the place up and it looks simply marvelous, so one would assume he is arriving very soon. He is rumored to be bringing with him a small company, a few of his family and some friends, and I even hear from the neighbors that he works as a _doctor_!"

She sighed heavily as her girls began asking her all sorts of questions, trying to glean more information about the party from London.

"Oh, what is his name? I'll bet he's perfectly _dashing_," Irene began.

"And I'm sure they'll be ever so lovely to have as company - I wonder if there's a girl I might be friends with, what do you think?" Mary asked shyly.

"I think," replied Molly. "That we might let our mother continue."

"Girls, girls, I haven't finished yet!" Their mother interrupted impatiently, waiting for the two to quiet themselves before carrying on. "It seems the party has already been settled in as of this past Tuesday, and wanting to confirm the rumors for myself, I paid the young man a visit yesterday morning." This sent the girls into a flutter, as they knew how their mother could be when she tried to socialize. "His name is Watson, John Watson, and he's brought a friend by the name of Sherlock Holmes. He is rather handsome and very wealthy, and I hear that the Holmes man is the same way, though I did not have the privilege of meeting him myself. There is also John's younger sister, Janine, who is supposedly quite beautiful and accomplished in every sense of the word. Finally, they have brought with them John's elder sister, Anthea, and I believe Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, will be arriving soon." She sat back in her chair, looking pleased with herself as her girls absorbed the new information.

"As there will be so many young gentleman in the house, I expect you all to make lovely impressions of yourselves. I want to see efforts being made, girls, as I will not have you squandering this lovely opportunity. You are both getting older and have failed miserably at obtaining husbands, oh, no offense, dears, but honestly! You now have your pick of three perfectly respectable men and a social function at which to meet them, so please, try to be polite and even charming, if you can." She stood up, pushing a pin back into her elaborately coiffed hairstyle. "Thank you, girls. You may retire to your rooms; dinner will be held in exactly one hour." Leaving her daughters to daydream, Mrs. Hudson left the parlor in favor of her usual spot on the sitting room couch, where she could enjoy the view from the large window behind it and sort out all the gossip that came with living in Saint Bartholomew's.

**ooooo**

"You aren't seriously _considering_ it, John?" Sherlock drawled, tone dripping with disdain.

"Why not? I'm particularly interested in meeting those Hudson girls we've heard so much about - say, wasn't Michael telling us just the other day how pretty they both were?" John Watson smiled mischievously at his miserable friend.

"Michael Stamford does not gossip, you know that. And I have no interest in attending any _ball_," the detective scoffed coldly.

"Oh, come on. We've only just bought the place and you're already being unsociable? That's a new record, I think, even for you."

"What's all this I hear about a ball?" A voice asked from the hall. Janine came waltzing into the room, placing herself on the couch next to Sherlock with a sunny smile.

"I was thinking of holding one here for the neighbors within the next few days. Do you think it's a good idea?" John asked her.

"I think it's a marvelous idea! What a delightful way to get to know everyone," she replied. "Don't you think so, Mr. Holmes?"

"I'm not one for dances, myself," huffed the detective sarcastically. "Too many uninteresting people."

"Then it's settled! We'll hold the ball first thing next week, after we've properly unpacked ourselves," John declared after the room had sat in uncomfortable silence for a minute or two. "Would you be so kind as to tell Anthea for me?" He asked his sister, conveniently dismissing her from the room. Turning to Sherlock, who still eyed him with a mixture of distaste and hatred, he said cheerfully, "And you're coming, whether you like it or not. You simply cannot have a reputation like yours and not introduce yourself, Sherlock, it's rude. I'm also inviting your brother, since he socializes even less than you do." He held up a hand as Sherlock started to object. "There's nothing you can do or say to change my mind, and I expect you both to be on your absolute _best_ behavior. Can you handle that?" He crossed his arms, seemingly daring his friend to defy him.

"Fine," muttered Sherlock, now in a rather spectacular sulk. "Since when do I ever care about being rude?" He mumbled to himself as John exited the room, a satisfied smile spreading across the doctor's features.

**ooooo**

"Thea! Thea, where are you?" Janine called up the stairs.

"In my room," a quiet voice said in response, and Janine entered her elder sister's room to find Anthea sitting on her bed, an unopened letter resting in her lap.

"Ooh, who's the letter from, Thea?" Janine sat down next to her sister, trying to take a peek at the envelope, now hidden within a fold in Anthea's skirt.

"Don't be nosy," Anthea said, flushing ever-so-slightly.

Her sister studied her for a moment before her eyes widened. "It's from the other Holmes boy, isn't it?" Janine gasped. "Oh, Thea!"

Anthea suddenly paled, rushing to close the door. "Shh!" She scolded her sister. "It's _private_, Janine. My correspondence is mine and mine alone."

"Sorry," mumbled Janine, looking down at her hands. She noticed the letter had fallen to the floor from Anthea's skirts when the elder girl had stood and she quickly snatched it up, much to the dismay of her sister.

"Janine!" Anthea hissed, but it was too late. Janine had already examined the exterior of the envelope and had moved on to its contents, ripping the cream colored stationary without hesitation.

" 'My dearest Anthea', " Janine began. " 'I write to inform you of my impending arrival to Scotland Yard estate, where I hope I may finally be able to make your acquaintance.' " Her eyes widened as she said the words aloud before adding, "He's coming here? To Scotland Yard? To meet you? Wait... What does he mean, _finally_?" Her hand flew to cover her mouth as she offered herself the solution to her own question. "Thea, how long have you been writing him? Weeks? Months? _Years_?"

Anthea's pallor had deepened to a full blush by now, and she earnestly curbed her sister's assumptions. "No, no, nothing like that... I've only written Mycroft three letters. It's been two weeks," she said shyly. "Though I had no idea he planned on visiting."

"And you don't even have a proper _dress_, Thea! Oh, and if he's coming so soon, then he'll be here for the ball and-" She was cut off by Anthea.

"Ball? What ball?"

"Well, John has decided to hold a ball here, for the neighbors. Early next week, he said," Janine replied excitedly. "And I assumed, naturally, that if Mycroft was anticipating being here within the next few days, then surely he would stay for the party. John was going to invite him anyway, I overheard him say it to Sherlock before I came to tell you."

"Oh," Anthea said, thinking over the new piece of information. "Yes, I suppose he will stay," she added with a small smile.

Janine beamed. "Imagine, you with a suitor!"

"He is _not_ my suitor, you ridiculous girl," Anthea giggled. "Didn't you hear me say I've only sent him three letters?"

"I don't know, Thea... A lot can happen on three pieces of paper," Janine called over her shoulder, rushing to the doorway. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd better go report back to John. Sometimes, I feel like we have a soldier instead of a doctor for a brother," she said, rolling her eyes before running down the stairs again.

When she had gone, Anthea sighed and pulled out the letter, sitting down again on her bed to read it. By the time she had finished, she was smiling brightly, and there was a certain spring in her step all afternoon.

Janine couldn't be sure, but she was confident that Anthea was a bit more excited to meet Mycroft than she was letting on.

**ooooo**

_Hello to all, and thank you for reading!_

_I myself am in love with the entire story and concept of Pride and Prejudice (book, movie, and Lizzie Bennet Diaries), so when I saw the opportunity to convert it into a Sherlock piece, how could I resist?_

_Anyway, I sincerely hope you enjoy reading the story as much as I enjoy writing it - don't forget to leave a review!_

_~London Belle_


	3. Chapter 2

"Ow!" John hissed as he felt a pin stick his leg. The Italian man working beneath him muttered what the doctor hoped was an apology before attempting to wrangle a measuring tape around his middle, prompting John to call out to Sherlock across the room. "Ask him if he's almost done, will you?"

Sherlock conversed with the tailor using a few short, sharp Italian phrases before calling back to his friend over his shoulder. "He says another half-hour, if we want a good suit, and ten minutes if we don't."

John groaned. "Why isn't Mycroft being fitted, too?"

"Because that git brings his entire wardrobe with him wherever he goes," scoffed Sherlock.

"And 'this git' can hear you, you know," a voice called from the hallway. Mycroft entered the room, surprisingly devoid of his typical umbrella.

"Wonderful, I was getting worried," spat Sherlock sarcastically.

"Mycroft! Did you get settled in alright? How was the trip?" John asked, twisting his head over his shoulder in an attempt to have a conversation with the elder Holmes.

"Oh, fine, John, thank you," replied Mycroft with a smile. "The ride was not too long, though a bit bumpy, I'm afraid - these country roads are quite different from the cobblestone streets of London."

"Lovely," cut in his brother bitterly. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we have a fitting to get back to."

"Sherlock, don't be rude," scolded John. "Your brother's only just got here."

"Yes, and he was just leaving," Sherlock said forcefully. At this, Mycroft simply rolled his eyes.

"Don't bother, John, he's always like this," came the calm response. "Thank you again for your assistance," he added as he left the room.

When he was safely out of earshot, John heaved a heavy sigh.

"What?" snapped Sherlock.

"Can't you at least _try_ and treat your brother like he's a normal human being?" John sounded weary as he stepped down from the little wooden stool.

"Effort, John." Sherlock did the same, loudly making a quick statement in Italian before exiting the room alongside his friend.

"Well, either figure it out before the ball or stay the hell away from your brother. I don't want you scaring off the neighbors before they've even met you!" John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Think you can handle that?"

"If you insist," sighed Sherlock dramatically with a wave of his hand.

"Good. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some catering arrangements to make," John called over his shoulder as he started down the stairs. "And please, do whatever you like to entertain yourself before dinner - just don't start any fires!"

"That was _one_ time, John Watson!" Sherlock shouted back indignantly.

John reappeared on the landing, looking up at his friend with his best Don't-you-dare-play-that-game-with-me-Sherlock-Holmes face. "And you can _still_ see the scorch marks on the kitchen curtains," he said, and with a smug smirk, the doctor was off again.

**ooooo**

"Sally!" Molly cried, rushing to give her best friend a quick hug. "Oh, it's been much too long! Please, come in - we can have the parlor all to ourselves," she said, beaming.

"Any special reason for your visit today?" Molly asked, bringing in a tray of tea.

"Actually, I had some more information on that Watson party for you," Sally grinned. "I was going to wait until next week to tell you, but then I remembered the ball, so I hurried over as quickly as I could!"

"My sisters and I have been trying to find out as much as we can about both the Watson family and the Holmes family for the past few days, but with little success. The only thing we've learned so far is that the Holmes brothers live in some estate named Bennet Street, but nobody seems to know exactly _where_ it is," Molly replied.

"Well," Sally began with a sly smirk. "The younger Holmes, Sherlock, is a detective. A consulting detective, he calls himself. Supposedly, he helps the police solve crimes and such, but he's currently on holiday with the Watsons. He and his older brother, Mycroft, live in an estate properly called 221 Bennet Street, in London."

"London!" Molly gasped. Saint Bartholomew's and Scotland Yard were both out in the country, a good distance away from the fabled 'big city'.

"John Watson works with him, and the two have been the best of friends as long as anybody can remember. They have a friend in the police force, a Gregory Lestrade, and I heard a rumor just the other day that he will also be attending the ball."

"I thought John Watson was a doctor?" Molly tilted her head in confusion.

"He is," Sally said, "But he also used to serve in the military. That's where he was a doctor, on the battlefield. When he came home from the war with a bullet in his shoulder, he stopped making use of his medical license. He met Sherlock with the help of a mutual friend, Michael Stamford, and, well... It all sort of took off from there."

"Interesting," Molly said thoughtfully. "Have you heard anything about their characters?"

"People say both Holmes brothers are a bit strange, but John Watson is rumored to be very pleasant and well-mannered." Here, Sally paused. "I've met Sherlock a few times," she continued. "And I have to say, I agree. He's odd and unsociable, and just about the only force of nature strong enough to handle him is John."

Just then, they heard a quiet voice from the doorway.

"Molly? Can I -" Mary broke off when she saw Sally. "Oh, hello, Sally! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"No, Mary, it's fine," Molly and Sally both managed to say over top of one another. "What did you need?" Molly asked.

"There was a letter in the mail," Mary began. "From Dr. Watson. It was addressed to our mother, but she read it aloud to Irene and myself."

"That Watson is incredibly polite, isn't he?" Irene appeared next to her older sister.

"It was nothing, really - he just said the entire Scotland Yard party was anxious to meet us," Mary said.

"See? I told you," Sally smirked.

"Yes, you did," Molly sighed. "And yes, from what I can tell, he is quite civil."

"If popular opinion is anything to go on, he's more than just _civil_," Irene commented.

"But it's just that: Popular _opinion_," Mary interjected. "We won't know anything for sure until tomorrow night."

"She's right, you know," Sally agreed.

"Fine," Irene rolled her eyes. "Which reminds me, I still need to find a dress! Excuse me, everyone," she called over her shoulder as she bounded up the stairs.

"Oh! I almost forgot - I'm to pick up my new dress in town today. Sorry, girls, but I must be off," Mary apologized, following Irene up the stairs.

"It's getting rather late; I suppose I should leave, as well," Sally sighed, standing. "It was lovely to see you again, Molly. Please give my regards to your sisters and that mother of yours."

"Wait, Sally," Molly called after her as she made to leave. "Will you be attending the ball?"

"Yes, I will," Sally smiled, pausing thoughtfully. "I thought I overheard one of my friends in town say that your cousin will also be in attendance?"

"Unfortunately, he will," Molly said, sounding slightly annoyed. "He has business in London, so he decided it would have been unsociable not to attend. He wishes to pay us a visit after his work is completed, and I expect he will be staying with us in just a short while. That does not bode well for us Hudson sisters, Sally - our mother holds something of a grudge against him, as he is the sole heir to all of our estate, considering our family has no boys with which to hand the burden."

"You girls will see it through, I'm sure," Sally said sympathetically. She turned as if to leave, then turned back to Molly one last time, hastily asking, "What was his name again? I thought maybe I had met him once before, but I'm not quite sure."

"Anderson," Molly said slowly, quite confused as to why Sally would ask. "Philip Anderson."

"Never mind then, you'll just have to introduce me when he arrives. I'll see you tomorrow night, Molly Hudson!" Sally said with a tiny wave as she closed the front door behind her.

**ooooo**

_Next chapter: The ball!_

_Thank you so much for reading and for leaving such lovely reviews!_

_~London Belle_


	4. Chapter 3

"Sherlock! There you are," cried John, approaching the detective, who was inhabiting the very back corner of the ballroom by himself. "I've been looking for you for fifteen minutes now! What are you doing over here?"

"I told you, John, I dislike socializing immensely," Sherlock replied stiffly.

"But you love dancing, and this is a ball," John said. "So I suppose a better question would be: Why aren't you dancing?"

"Your sisters are both occupied," Sherlock began. "And I prefer to keep the company of competent beings, when at all possible."

"While I'm glad you find my sisters to be competent, that's no excuse," John scolded. "Why not find a new partner? Like that girl, over there," he gestured to Molly, who was currently sitting by herself. "She's one of the Hudson girls, and they are all intelligent to some degree. She's pretty, too," he added, earning himself a snort from the detective.

"Pretty? Hardly," Sherlock scoffed. "Plain is more like it. You, my dear Watson, have the pleasure of dancing with the only truly pretty girl in the entire room: the lovely Miss Mary Hudson." Both men turned to look at Mary, who was laughing with Janine across the room.

"She is rather breathtaking, isn't she?" John sighed.

Sherlock had absolutely no interest in watching poor John continue to struggle in the grip of his infatuation, so he took it upon himself to intervene. "Then by all means, go and talk to her! Ask her again to dance, if the idea appeals."

"I might," John said, grinning. "But I expect to see you dance at least once by the end of the night, understand? Even if it's only with Anthea or Janine." He waited expectantly for an answer, arms crossed.

Sherlock sighed. "If you insist." In truth, he was quite glad for the opportunity to be left alone to his thoughts once again.

"I do. Thank you," John called over his shoulder as he started towards Mary, who was now sitting next to Molly.

Molly, who had been sitting relatively close to John and Sherlock.

Molly, who had overheard the entire conversation.

Molly, who was trying very hard not to cry.

**ooooo**

"Molly, you mustn't let them bother you," Mary tried soothing her sister, who was at the moment inconsolable.

"And to think, everyone had such kind opinions of that man," Molly spat, glaring in Sherlock's general direction. " 'Oh, Molly, isn't he so very handsome?', 'Oh, Molly, isn't he polite?', 'I hear he makes his living as a detective in London, isn't it romantic?' " her tone went sour as she repeated previous praise that had gushed from the girls all evening.

"Surely, he didn't mean it," Mary said. "Why, his friend the doctor is rather charming, and I can't imagine that such a man would be attached to anyone quite so evil as you make Mr. Holmes out to be."

Molly suddenly felt guilty for pulling Mary into such a trifling matter. After all, her sister did pose valid arguments. Furthermore, she had danced three times already with John (_more than with any other girl in the room,_ Molly thought to herself smugly), and Molly was keeping her from a potential fourth. The sight of John walking towards them prompted her spirits to lift and a change in the subject, as Molly began to take the job of matchmaker upon herself. _As long as I don't turn into Mother, what's the harm?_

"I suppose you're right, as always," she conceded. "And since you bring up Dr. Watson, here he comes! Do you think he'll ask you to dance again?"

Mary blushed. "Don't stare, Molly, it's rude. And no, I don't; there are plenty of other guests he needs to greet, and we've only just met, so a fourth dance would be silly."

"Surely he doesn't feel the same way," Molly replied. "Else he wouldn't be headed straight for you!"

Before Mary could form a response, John approached her and offered his arm. "Mind if I steal your sister away, Miss Hudson?" He asked. Molly gave him a large smile in return.

"Oh, no, by all means, please!" She blatantly ignored the new blush beginning to work its way into her sister's cheeks, choosing instead to give her a little wave as the doctor led her away.

**ooooo**

"Molly!" A voice reached Molly through the wall of skirts. She turned to see a head of curls weaving its way towards her, and she grinned. She knew only one girl with _that_ many curls: Sally had come after all!

"Sally?" She called back. Sure enough, her friend burst through the crowd to stand next to her, about to start up a conversation when Molly felt a slight tap on her shoulder.

"Miss Hudson?"

_Oh, no._

Molly knew _that_ voice, too, and it could only mean one thing: Her cousin had caught up with her at last. She plastered a fake smile upon her face before turning to greet him.

"Philip! It's been much too long," she said, tone pleasant but not overly so.

Philip Anderson gave her a bright smile. "I dare say you've grown even more beautiful than when we met last, Miss Hudson. And who, may I ask, is this?" He gazed over her head (for though neither of the two were particularly tall, Anderson was still taller than Molly) at Sally, who smiled and gave a little curtsy.

"Oh! How terribly rude of me not to introduce you two," Molly said. "Philip, this is my dear friend, Sally Donovan. Sally, my cousin, Philip Anderson."

"Ah! Well, a friend of Miss Hudson's is most certainly a friend of mine," Anderson grinned. "And I should be pleased to make the acquaintance of such a fine young woman."

Molly rolled her eyes at Sally's slight blush. Her cousin's flair for extravagant measures of etiquette could be bothersome, at times, but occasionally he struck her as so terribly aggravating that Molly prayed he might return to the city from whence he came and stay there.

"Care to dance, Molly?" Anderson offered his arm. _Think quickly!_ There was simply no way on _Earth_ she was going to dance with Philip Anderson, cousin or not.

"Actually, I was just off to meet a young gentleman to whom I've promised the next two, but I shall come and find you afterwards. In the meantime, Sally is perfectly free to accompany you," Molly said, smiling apologetically as she ducked into the crowd, not even bothering to watch the stunned expression that spread across her best friend's features, nor the nervous one upon Anderson's.

**ooooo**

Anthea had just finished a dance with a pleasant but insufferably dull gentleman (Jim? James? She couldn't even remember his name,) when she saw Janine making her way towards her from across the room.

"Thea!" Janine called. "_Finally_ - do you think you could introduce me to someone?"

Anthea gave her sister a suspicious glare. "And who might they be?"

"There's a rather dashing gentleman who says he knows you," Janine said. "And I was wondering if you might at least offer me a name." Anthea simply raised an eyebrow, prompting her sister to add, "Please?"

"Alright, but no promises," Anthea relented, following an uncharacteristically excited Janine back across the ballroom floor.

Upon reaching the far wall, Anthea noticed a tall man standing by himself. He appeared extremely bored, constantly checking his watch and adjusting his jacket with a disapproving air. As the pair approached him, Anthea found that she did not recognize him after all, and she turned to her sister. "Janine, he must be mistaken. I've never seen-" Janine interrupted in a low whisper as they approached the man.

"I know, Thea, I'm sorry. Truth be told, I may have told you a little bit of a lie to get you here - I do want an introduction, but not for myself."

Anthea took a second or two to process the information, then she paled ever-so-slightly. "Oh, no. Janine, is that-"

"Here she is!" Janine said proudly, gently pushing her sister in front of her. "Mycroft Holmes, my sister, Anthea Watson. Thea, this is Mycroft Holmes."

"It's lovely to finally meet you, Mr. Holmes," Anthea said, her usual composure returning to her.

"Oh, Mycroft, please," Mycroft replied with a smile. "And I truly must insist that the pleasure is all mine, Miss Watson."

"If I'm to call you Mycroft, then you won't mind if I ask you to call me Anthea."

"Certainly not," came the response, and Janine decided that was her cue to leave the happy couple to themselves.

"Thea, I can hear dear Mother calling me from the crowd," she said. "I'll come fetch you when it's time to leave. It was wonderful to meet you, Mr. Holmes."

"And you as well-"

"Thank you, Janine-"

Janine giggled as the two said their goodbyes simultaneously, leaving a blushing Anthea and a grinning Mycroft in favor of the party of girls that had begun to form in the center of the ballroom.

_And yet, she swears he isn't her suitor._ Hopefully, Mycroft would figure things out (he seemed intelligent enough), but if she had to help them herself, then so be it - in her mind, they were already married anyway.

**ooooo**

_In response to reviews from previous chapters:_

_owlcroft: Thank you so, so much! I consider it an honor to be placed into your archives, and I'm glad you're enjoying the piece! (And yes, I'm having a ridiculous amount of fun writing this!)_

_The-Scorpio-Holmes-Sister-221B: Thank you for the kind words! (I simply couldn't resist bringing Anderson and Donovan into the middle of things - call it a weakness, but I felt it had to be done!)_

_Black Night: Thank you! Yes, you assume correctly - both Darcy and Sherlock actually like to dance, but apparently Darcy will only dance with certain people, so I had to make Sherlock a bit less enthusiastic about it than I normally would._

_And so the first ball comes to an end! Please let me know what you think, and thank you for reading!_

_~London Belle _


	5. Chapter 4

Molly and Mary were sitting by themselves in the parlor of St. Bart's, alone for the first time since the previous evening's engagement. For the entire day, Mary had said nothing in particular about John other than simply agreeing with the general praise that floated around the household, and this frustrated Molly just a little. She was utterly determined to help the adorable couple in any way she could, and Mary's lack of interest so far could only lead Molly to suspect that there had been no real interest at all. A shame, really, but she wasn't ready to give up the fight yet.

Finally, after discussing the general gossip of the evening, Mary turned the conversation to the man in question.

"He is just what a young man ought to be," she said. "Pleasant, an excellent conversationalist, intelligent - and so very polite!"

"And incredibly handsome," Molly added quickly. "Which a young man should always try to be, if he can. Is it also safe to say he is an accomplished dancer?"

At this, Mary blushed. "I was very flattered to be asked to dance so many times," she said. "I never expected such a compliment."

"Oh, I did," Molly replied. "After all, you were the prettiest girl in the room by far, and surely we cannot fault the doctor for noticing the obvious."

"Molly!"

"What? It's true," Molly defended herself. "Anyway, what do you think of his sisters? Janine, and the elder one, Anthea."

"Janine was quite nice to talk to, and very pretty," Mary said. "And Anthea was the same, though I really must say I found her much prettier than any other girl in the room, including plain old me. They are to stay with Dr. Watson while he remains at Scotland Yard, and I think they will make lovely neighbors, don't you?"

Molly was not convinced. She thought Janine was a little vain and a little proud, frowning on the Hudson family because they were not nearly as rich or as accomplished as her own. However, Anthea seemed nice enough, if a bit bored with the company presented to her. Molly could not blame her, though - she would feel the same, if placed in a room filled with girls who were much younger and less mature than she.

While on the subject of first impressions, let us turn to Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes themselves. John was very pleased with the entire success of his event, finding the girls as a whole to have all been pretty and intelligent, but it was Mary who had truly captivated him. Mary was beautiful, she was kind, she was interested in medicine - it seemed a match made in Heaven, and even Sherlock noticed his obvious infatuation. Sherlock himself found the entire party to be dull and boring, holding no interest for his highly complex mind. To him, Mary was fairly pretty, but she smiled too much. Then again, most people did.

**ooooo**

"Janine!" Anthea called from her room. "Would you come up here, please?" Her sister joined her a short while later, closing the door behind her at Anthea's request.

"What's the matter, Thea?" Janine sat down beside Anthea on her bed, cognizant of her sister's unusually sunny smile.

"I wanted to thank you for last night... It was a wonderful surprise, it really was!" The words came tumbling out, one after the other, before Anthea even realized what she was saying.

"It took a bit of planning to set up, but I'm glad I could help! I assume your first meeting went well, then?"

"Better than anything I could have imagined! He was incredibly chivalrous, and we simply picked up right where we left off in our letters!"

"Did he ask you to dance?" Janine asked eagerly. She had been curious as to the success of the entire affair, but this was the only question she was positively _dying_ to have answered.

Anthea flushed. "And what if he did?"

"Oh, Thea, how marvelous!" Janine cried. "When will you see each other again?"

Anthea balked. She had only learned just last night of Mycroft's stay at Scotland Yard, and was quite shocked that neither she nor Janine had met him before the ball. But how to give the news to her sister? "Ah, well -"

She was interrupted by a knock at the door. "Anthea?" A man's voice reached them through the wood. "John told me I might find you in here. May I please come in?"

Anthea turned a slight shade paler. Janine tilted her head in confusion before moving to unlock the door, opening it to reveal the visitor.

"Oh, hello, Janine," Mycroft said with a smile. "Terribly sorry if I've interrupted anything - would another time be more convenient?"

"No, no, please, don't mind me, I was just leaving!" Janine stammered, slipping into the hallway and retreating to her own room as she heard Anthea ask, "I take it you've gotten all settled in, then?"

Mycroft Holmes was staying at Scotland Yard.

"A month 'till they're engaged, I wager," John whispered as he passed his dumbfounded sister on his way downstairs.

**ooooo**

"_Letters? _You mean to tell me, in all seriousness, that _you_ wrote a _woman_ letters," Sherlock spat in disgust.

"Yes, I believe that is what I've just said. Don't make me repeat myself, Sherlock, you know how I despise it." Mycroft replied in a bored tone.

"But _Anthea_? She's John's _sister_, Mycroft, for God's sake, have some decency!"

"We are not romantically involved," Mycroft said stiffly. "And do try to refrain from expressing your alarm over such matters in the future, it's rather immature."

"Not romantically involved," Sherlock scoffed. "You forget, brother mine, how terrible a liar you truly are."

"I assure you, we are not," Mycroft insisted, his grin dropping away almost immediately. "The letters were strictly pleasantries."

"Surely you don't believe me to be _that_ stupid! I am not one of your goldfish, Mycroft."

"Even if you wished to say we were, you couldn't, dear brother," Mycroft snapped. "The feeling would not be mutual, even Lestrade can see that. Speaking of Lestrade, -"

"In a few days' time, and don't you change the subject, you git!"

"Sherlock," Mycroft sighed heavily. "You're acting like a child. You know I loathe sentiment far too much for it to become a part of any relationship I endeavor to have."

"Then I suggest you tell the woman in question, as the message is so obviously not clear to her!" Sherlock shouted, then dropped his voice to a venomous whisper. "Mycroft bloody Holmes, if you hurt Anthea, you'll hurt John and possibly Janine, as well. Let it be known to that thick skull of yours that I will not have John upset over your petty flirting, nor will I have the destruction of the only two competent females I have met during my stay here due to 'mixed messages'. Is that _understood_?" Accompanied by a murderous glare, the threat chased Mycroft out of the sitting room as desired, leaving a rather satisfied detective to himself to think.

**ooooo**

Desperately wanting an excuse to leave the house, Molly decided she would call on Sally. She felt extremely guilty for pushing Anderson off on her friend, but for some reason Sally hadn't seemed to mind. _Why was that, exactly?_ Sure, she had been surprised, but annoyed or angry? Not so much.

And then in the sitting room before the ball, Sally had asked about her cousin. She had wanted his name, that she might remember meeting him, but Molly could think of no way she could possibly have made his acquaintance beforehand. As she reached Sally's, she brushed off her questions, wanting the answers from Sally herself - surely there had to be a logical explanation for it all. Sally had always been a logical person, and Molly had no reason to suspect anything different this time.

When they had both settled in Sally's parlor, Molly began with an apology, as her conscience convinced her she should. "About Philip - oh, Sally, that was truly awful of me. In no way should you have been made to listen to his endless prattle, and I should have simply put up with him."

"Put up with -? What _are_ you talking about?" Sally looked and sounded utterly confused.

"Well, I know he is terribly bothersome, and -" Sally interrupted her before she had the chance to finish.

"Bothersome! Philip was nothing of the sort!" She cried, astonished. "A perfect gentleman, yes, but certainly not _bothersome_."

Molly stared at her. _Had she gone mad? How could anyone possibly stand that man for more than ten minutes at a time?_

"You _are_ talking about Philip Anderson, correct?"

"Yes!" Sally laughed. "And I still don't see why you're so shocked."

"Because..." Molly began. "Because my cousin rarely conducts himself as a 'perfect gentleman', as you put it."

"Oh. Maybe it's just me, then?"

"Maybe," Molly agreed. Suddenly, a thought occurred to her which was filled with so many probable horrific outcomes that she felt impelled to ask at once, lest her mind be ruined by the mere vision of it. "Ah, did he, did you happen to dance with him?" She waited with bated breath for the answer.

"Yes, twice," Sally said, and Molly was rather terrified of the nonchalant manner in which the two words were said. "I enjoyed his company greatly."

"Oh," Molly said. "Twice?"

Sally sighed. "Yes, twice, I said that already. I thought he was rather polite, myself. We had a delightful discussion about forensics, his employment involves crime scenes and the like, and I even found him to be quite handsome, myself. Now, is there anything else you'd like to know, or are you satisfied?"

Molly was speechless. She shook her head, earning a smile from Sally, but in the back of her mind she was secretly thinking of all the ways she might interrogate Anderson when he came to visit.

That git had a _lot_ to explain.

**ooooo**

_Give credit where credit is due: I did snatch a line or two from Pride and Prejudice in this chapter. (Brilliant, those of you who spotted it!)_

_Next chapter: A special invitation arrives at the Hudson household._

_Thank you for reading, and please don't forget to review, review, review!_

_~London Belle_


	6. Chapter 5

"Girls!" Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs. "Girls! There's been a letter!"

"For whom, Mother?" Mary was first down the stairs, followed by Molly and finally, Irene.

"For you, dear," Mrs. Hudson replied, slicing open the envelope with ease.

"More importantly, _from_ whom?" Irene asked impatiently.

"From Janine Watson, as it would seem," Mrs. Hudson said excitedly, pulling the letter from the envelope with a flourish. She unfolded the thick stationary, and her eyes lit up as she read the contents. "It's an invitation!"

"An invitation to _what_, Mother? Read it aloud!" Molly demanded.

"May I read it, considering it is my letter?" Mary asked timidly, holding her hand out. Mrs. Hudson sighed, reluctantly handing the paper over to her eldest daughter.

"Very well. Enlighten us," she sighed.

Mary smiled and began to read. " 'My sister and I would be delighted if you might consider joining us for dinner tonight here at Scotland Yard. Considering my brother and the gentlemen will be occupied, it will be a lovely chance for us to chat, as surely you must know what it is like to have to endure such mundane conversation when in the company of men. Send us a reply if you wish to come, and we shall expect to see you soon. Yours, Janine.' "

"Well, of course you must go!" Mrs. Hudson cried. "You shall be changed and ready within the hour."

"May I take the carriage?" Mary asked. "It is such a distance to walk, and I would prefer not to ride."

"Certainly not!" Mrs. Hudson replied. "For if you drive over, they will surely send you back when dinner has ended! No, you must take one of the horses, and then if it rains they shall have to keep you there."

"If she rides, will the Watsons not offer to send her back themselves?" Molly interjected. "They will no doubt put her into one of their own carriages, and she will be home before dark."

"Ah, but you forget about the gentlemen!" Mrs. Hudson said. "They will certainly want to use the carriage after dinner has ended."

"Oh, please, must I ride?" Mary begged. "I should much rather like to take our carriage and save the trouble."

"Even if you would rather drive, we do not have enough horses for the carriage, as we have sent two to Sally's so that Sir Donovan might host a hunting party later in the week," Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully.

At last, Mary relented, and so she was to ride over later that evening. When the time came for her to leave, Mrs. Hudson sent her off with the hope of a storm that night, and Mary had not been gone long before it began to rain torrents. Though their mother was happier than her girls had seen her in a while, both Molly and Irene worried for Mary, and prayed that she had made it to Scotland Yard safely.

**ooooo**

"Mother! We've had a letter from Mary!" Molly called from the foyer the next morning. Both Mrs. Hudson and Irene came rushing down the stairs, eagerly awaiting what they hoped was good news from Scotland Yard. Molly opened the envelope and proceeded to read the note aloud, frowning as she reached the end.

" 'This morning I find that I am unwell, most likely resulting from my being caught in last night's rain. My dear friends insist I stay with them until my health returns to me, though at the moment I suffer from only a headache and a sore throat. Please tell Mother that the dinner went exceedingly well, and that are all in good health and spirits besides myself. Mary.' "

"Oh! A headache and sore throat is nothing to worry about, nothing at all, though I should like to have gone and seen her had the carriage been available," Mrs. Hudson said. "I wonder if she and that Dr. Watson have had a chance to see each other yet?"

"Mother!" Molly cried. "I refuse to sit here while poor Mary is ill. I'm going to see her right this minute!"

"But how shall you get there?" Irene asked. "Mary has taken the last horse, unless you would care to travel in a carriage pulled by ghosts!"

"I'll walk," Molly said with determination. "It isn't far, just a few miles. I'm sure I can manage."

"I'll come with you half-way, but I should like to be back before lunch," Irene offered. "Are you really going to walk all that way in your nice dress, Molly? You'll look positively dreadful by the time the Watsons see you."

"I shall look presentable enough to see Jane, which is all I want," Molly said. When neither of the two women could find another objection, she added, "Then it's settled. Irene, we leave in fifteen minutes."

True to her word, Irene left Molly to continue her walk alone halfway to Scotland Yard, and the route was filled with mud patches and puddles from the storm the night before. By the time she reached the estate, Molly looked quite a sight: Her stockings had become a murky black in color from the knees down, her ankles were terribly sore, and her face was flushed from the exercise. Nonetheless, she was shown into the sitting room, where everyone was gathered but Mary.

Overall, Molly's grand entrance created a great deal of surprise among the party. Janine was shocked that she would dare to walk so far in such dirty conditions, and that she did it alone was even more unsettling. By the time Molly sat down, she was convinced that the youngest Watson looked down upon her for it, but she was received politely nonetheless. Anthea remained the picture of grace, holding pleasant conversation and admiring Molly's determination. John's impeccable manners showed themselves many times, but Molly was most grateful to see his kindness in offering her any sort of refreshment, that she might be more comfortable after her ordeal. Sherlock and Mycroft said very little, other that what was deemed necessary - "Good morning, Molly." But Sherlock could not help but notice the way Molly seemed to glow from the exertion of walking such a distance, and after studying her for a few minutes, he gave up, deciding instead to puzzle over what might have motivated her to make such a journey in the first place.

When Molly asked after Mary, she was met with a most worrying response. It seemed that her sister had not slept well through the night and was not feeling well enough this morning to leave her room, and Molly was extremely thankful for the chance to see her immediately. Mary was ecstatic to see her sister, though she was not in any condition to hold a conversation beyond expressing her amazement and gratitude towards the kindness of those who had taken care of her.

In a short while, both Anthea and Janine came to see how Mary was progressing, and Molly found that she began to like the Watsons more and more, as they were quite fond of the elder Hudson sister. Soon, a physician arrived at the estate, and, diagnosing Mary with a violent cold as was expected, prescribed bed rest and some light medication. The advice was followed to the letter as Mary's symptoms worsened, and Molly refused to leave her sister's side for the entire day, often accompanied by the ladies of the house, as the gentlemen had gone out, leaving them with nothing else to do.

As dinnertime approached, Molly felt that she had overstayed her welcome, and reluctantly decided to return to St. Bart's. Janine offered to lend Molly the Watsons' carriage, but after Mary protested Molly's leaving at all, changed the offer into an invitation to remain at Scotland Yard for the time being. Molly eagerly consented, and a servant was sent to relay the message to St. Bart's, as well as to bring over some clothing.

**ooooo**

Around six, Molly was called down to dinner, whereupon she found a very anxious John trying to make pleasant conversation with the other ladies of the estate. When she sat down, she was immediately bombarded with questions as to Mary's well-being from almost everyone seated at the table, save Sherlock, who sat quietly between his brother and Anthea. Molly answered each inquiry with a smile, as she was both pleased and surprised to see how much the party had taken to Mary during her short stay.

As dinner progressed and the topic of conversation moved to other things, Molly seized the opportunity to do a bit of people-watching, something she often did when left to herself at social engagements. Both Watson sisters were enthralled by Sherlock and spent all of dinner fawning over his answers to their incessant questions, leaving Mycroft with a foul expression on his face throughout the entire night. As she had never seen him before, Molly thought she might be able to decide on the elder Holmes' character, but Mycroft did not open his mouth once in all of the time she spent downstairs. _Maybe he's just shy?_ Molly thought, unable to come up with a plausible explanation for both his attitude and his lack of conversation.

When the time came for Molly to retire upstairs, she apologized profusely for needing to leave the table early. She was provided with numerous urgings for her to go and check on Mary, and so she left the room in good spirits and with high hopes for her sister's full recovery.

The second Molly's footsteps disappeared up the staircase, Janine began criticizing her manners, taste, conversation, beauty - anything she could to put Molly in an unkind light. Though Anthea did not agree, the youngest Watson stopped at nothing to share her opinion on every inch of Molly's wardrobe, making sure to comment heavily on her atrocious appearance that morning.

"Stomping about the countryside simply because her sister was afflicted with a cold - I would never!" She scoffed. "Her hair was a tangled, blown-out mess, and that petticoat was layered with three inches of mud! Terrible, awful, filthy _mud_!"

John, who had been listening to his sister silently for quite some time, finally took offense and defended Molly, saying, "I hardly noticed any dirty petticoat! In my opinion, Miss Hudson looked remarkably well this morning, given that she had just walked such an enormous distance."

"To walk all that way must show some sort of country-bred indecency," Janine declared.

"I believe it shows admirable affection for her sister," John replied sharply.

A short pause, then Janine changed the subject. "As fond as I am of Mary Hudson, and she truly is a sweet girl, I wish that she were well-settled. I'm afraid her current position prevents her marrying anyone of any consequence." Clearly directed towards her brother, the venomous comment was unfortunately agreed upon by the other women at the table, save Anthea. In the eldest Watson's opinion, Mary was a kind girl who seemed to fit together with John perfectly, and so she felt inclined to damn any unworthy social positioning to hell.

"She mentioned an uncle of considerable wealth," John objected.

"And what are we supposed to make of the term 'considerable wealth'? People only say such vague things when they are untrue," Janine laughed.

"Even if she had _ten_ uncles of 'considerable wealth', it would not make her any less agreeable!" John cried.

"I _think_," were Sherlock's first words of the evening, and everyone stared at him in surprise when they were said. "It is time to move into the drawing room. Come along, Mycroft." And with that, he abruptly stood and left the table, followed by his (still sulking) brother.

**ooooo**

While the gentlemen started up a game of cards, the ladies went upstairs to check on the two Hudson sisters. Mary was able to offer a weak smile and express her thanks yet again, while Molly tried to quiet her, insisting she rest. The women chatted amiably until Mary fell asleep, at which point Molly decided she would join the party downstairs. She was shown into the drawing room and immediately accosted by John, who asked after Mary.

"She is presently resting," Molly replied. "But her health seems to be improving, thanks to your kindness." John grinned, almost in relief, Molly thought, and asked if she might like to join their card game. The offer was declined in favor of reading on the window-seat, a most surprising decision especially pondered by Sherlock.

"You read over playing cards?" He asked.

"Molly much prefers a book over any silly game," Janine offered. "And she has an admirable literary taste to show for it."

"I deserve no such praise," Molly said, flushing.

"Well, if she wishes to read, then let her!" John said firmly. "I myself find a break from cards most useful and refreshing, as well." Janine simply huffed and led the ladies to stand around the card table. Molly took the next opportunity to mouth a grateful 'thank you' at the doctor, who simply grinned in reply.

**ooooo**

Molly spent the evening reading quietly by the window, occasionally listening to the feeble gossip discussed by the women as the men tried their hand at gambling. Soon, Janine had grown bored of the topic of discussion and suggested the ladies each side with a man, so as to create betting 'teams' of a sort. When all had been paired, Sherlock was left by his lonesome, and though he tried to use the opportunity as an excuse to escape the company, Janine insisted that Molly come and be his partner. Not wanting to create a disagreement while she was staying as a house-guest, Molly reluctantly set down her book and came to stand behind the detective as his partner, examining his hand as the game resumed.

"You'll want to rid yourself of that Queen," she whispered. "John is about to play a royal flush."

"And how do you know that, Miss Hudson?" Sherlock raised a suspicious eyebrow. He had been planning on playing the Queen anyway, but since when did John have a royal flush?

"I caught a glimpse of his hand when I walked around the table," Molly answered. "And he has the absolute _worst_ straight face I've ever seen!"

Sherlock grinned (just a little, mind you). When his turn came, he played the Queen, and won the bet before John could play his royal flush.

He glanced over his shoulder to see a triumphant Molly placing her own bets for the next round, the last round she would allow herself to play before rushing back upstairs to see to Mary. After the pair were crowned champions once more, she kept her promise, saying her goodbyes and good nights as she left for her sister's bedroom. She was also relieved to be rid of Sherlock, as she was still upset over his comment about her at the ball. John trailed behind, wishing to personally see to Mary himself and instructing every staff member he met along the way to be sure the eldest Hudson had everything she needed.

Sherlock remained in the drawing room with the rest of the company, trying his best to think without snapping at the women who were constantly annoying him with their unwanted affections. He needed more data on Molly Hudson, but for now he was content to work with what little he had.

Mycroft attempted a semblance of casual conversation, but was terribly distracted by the excessive attention received by his brother. He was beginning to think he might be jealous, but then he realized it bothered him only when concerning Anthea. _How very... Sentimental of you. Don't let it happen again, your guard is slipping. _Then, he caught himself admiring her dress, and the way the color - _Damn it!_

Diplomats do _not_ fall in love.

**ooooo**

_A bit of a longer chapter today, to satisfy you all - please remember to review, and thank you for reading!_

_In response to reviews from previous chapters:_

_Cantuono: Thank you! I'm glad you're enjoying the story._

_Black Night: I try, darling, I try :)_

_The-Scorpio-Holmes-Sister-221B (a.k.a. SB): Thank you so much! I have to agree with you on Sherlock - I believe pretentious arse is the only way to describe him sometimes! And 'git', indeed :)_

_~London Belle_


	7. Chapter 6

The next day, Mrs. Hudson and Irene arrived at Scotland Yard to see Mary. Molly made sure they were shown in and out within an hour, as she was in no mood to try and control her mother's embarrassing social behavior, resulting in a short yet successful visit that left Mary incredibly happy.

"I think they managed to leave a favorable impression, don't you?" Mary asked. She and Molly were having a quick conversation before Molly had to join the party downstairs for tea.

"I think so," Molly smiled. "How are you feeling? John is very upset, you know, and he asks about you constantly. He shall absolutely have my head if I do not have something favorable to report!"

"Oh, poor John! He must truly hate me now," Mary said. "He had been wanting to show me a medical journal of his for ages, and I promised him we would sit and read it together before I contracted this dreadful cold."

Molly laughed. "I don't think he blames you, Mary. I'm more inclined to say he misses you, all locked up here by yourself. Whatever the case, promise me you'll try and drink some tea. I should really be downstairs already - I'll see you later, okay?" She grudgingly left the room, joining the others in the sitting room downstairs.

Upon her arrival, she was immediately approached by John, as expected. "How is Mary?" He asked, sounding slightly more anxious than usual. "Is she comfortable?"

"Fine, and yes, thank you," Molly replied. "I think she may be well enough to join us after dinner tonight, if she is left alone to rest."

"Wonderful!" John beamed. "Please, if she needs anything - "

"I'll ask," Molly smiled, turning to find a seat. Much to her dismay, the only available spot happened to be right next to the one and only Sherlock Holmes, whom Molly still wanted nothing to do with. Steeling herself for another nasty remark on her intelligence or any other characteristic of hers he might care to mention, she put on a pleasant smile and sat down, reaching for her cup as she did so.

Sherlock felt the arrangement put him in a rather awkward position as well. He had suddenly developed a rather worrying, rolling feeling in the pit of his stomach out of nowhere, which he guessed was either nausea or hunger, and was currently trying to devise a plan for acquiring more data on Molly Hudson. Should he attempt to socialize? Say nothing at all? He could feel his brother' critical stare from across the room, which unfortunately did not make the choice any easier. Eventually, the detective decided that if he wanted any data, he was going to have to get it himself, and he was about to speak when Janine (who was sitting on his other side) proceeded to strike up a conversation with Molly. _Perfect. _Now, he would have access to as much data as he wanted, without actually having to socialize with anybody.

So why did he feel disappointed?

"So, Molly, what else do you do besides read and play cards? Do you play?" Janine asked.

"Excuse me, play what, exactly?" Molly asked, confused.

"Why, the piano, of course!" Janine laughed.

"Oh," Molly said. "No, I've never learned."

"Really? Do you sing, then?" Janine sounded pleasantly amused, by what Molly could not tell.

"Not well, I'm afraid," she replied, feeling slightly self-conscious as to having admitted herself to be so unaccomplished.

Sherlock listened quietly, absorbing the new information as it was given to him. In general, he found that accomplished women were more educated and therefore more interesting to converse with. Typically, unaccomplished women were boring, dull, and vain, so he tended to stay away from them. How curious it was to have met such an unaccomplished woman, and yet... He found that Molly did not bother him nearly as much as he expected her to. Why was that, exactly?

"If you do not sing and you do not play, then why don't you cease your reading and learn? A woman such as yourself might find some musical background to be quite beneficial," Mycroft snapped irritably. Once again, Anthea was seated across the room next to Janine, and he found that this annoyed him to no end. However, the stern look she gave him created an even more annoying sense of guilt that nagged him until he was twice as miserable as before.

Now, Molly liked to think of herself as a nice person. She liked to think she was reasonable, and though she knew she could be a bit sensitive at times, she thought she was pretty tolerant of most people. But to have both Holmes brothers insult her in less than three days? _That_ was something Molly just would not put up with.

"Well, I suppose I find it more advantageous to have a well-read literary background than a developed musical one," she began. "Especially in a society where we need to have our wits about us more often than not. I believe it is the duty of a person to fill their mind with only the information they consider to be useful, otherwise what is the point of having a mind at all? And as such, I prefer to fill my own mind with bits and pieces of pertinent information I have picked up from books than with meaningless sheets of little black circles or scales, so please excuse me when I say that I do not wish to learn at all." She smiled directly at Mycroft, who simply nodded his head in response.

Though the rest of the room quickly fell into stunned silence, none were more unsettled than Sherlock. Molly had basically parroted his entire mind palace philosophy to the entire room, and he could not believe that his opinions were shared by someone whom he had originally dismissed as unimportant. Not to mention she had stood up to his brother, something which many people did not usually dare to do but which gave Sherlock great joy. And even though he was a musician himself and _did_ consider 'little black circles' and scales to be of importance, he understood and respected why a girl such as Molly would not.

To put it simply, Molly Hudson had accomplished the one task no one person was ever able to do.

She had rendered Sherlock Holmes speechless.

So, back to the detective's original question: Why was he not bothered by Molly's lack of achievement, considering his high expectations of the female gender as a whole?

_That's_ why.

**ooooo**

"Mary?" Molly gently pushed open the door to her sister's room.

"Hi, Molly," Mary said with a smile. "How was tea? Is everybody well?"

"Oh, tea was fine," Molly said quickly. She refused to worry Mary with anything, especially not with something as trivial as her poor behavior. "All are well, and they send their hopes for a full recovery. John is particularly worried about you, though. When I told him you might feel well enough to come downstairs after dinner, he positively lit up the entire room!" She giggled.

"Molly, don't exaggerate," Mary chided.

"I would never!" Molly feigned offense. "But, in all seriousness... Do you think you'll come down after dinner?"

Mary sighed. "I suppose I must, if everybody is so worried about me."

"Don't feel _obliged_, oh, no!" Molly rushed to say. "Only if you truly feel well."

Mary smiled. "Yes, Molly, I feel well enough to come visit after dinner."

"Perfect!" Molly cried. "Oh, Janine and Anthea have been so very worried about you, and..." She broke off, grinning. "Of course, you'll want to see John."

"Molly!" Mary flushed.

"Don't worry. Even if you didn't want to see him, I'm sure he won't let you out of his sight for the entire evening," Molly called over her shoulder as she flung open the wardrobe. "Now, where is that pretty blue dress of yours? That one always did look best on you..."

**ooooo**

"Piss _off_, Mycroft," Sherlock growled.

"I am simply concerned about you, brother mine. Always have been," Mycroft replied as he strode over to the sitting room window.

"I never asked for your concern," came the sharp reply.

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, please answer the question. This is childish. Mummy would be so very upset..."

"I gave you an answer; will you not take it?"

"I will not leave with a lie, dear brother."

"It is _not_ a lie, you git!" Sherlock raised his voice.

"Sherlock, really," Mycroft scolded. "Must we do this every time?"

"I suppose I might ask you the same about Anthea." At this, Mycroft's back went visibly rigid, and Sherlock grinned triumphantly.

"Anthea Watson holds no relevance to our current discussion," The elder Holmes said menacingly.

"Oh, but she does, _brother mine._" The last words were spat with a considerable amount of spiteful sarcasm.

"She does not, and you will refrain from mentioning her."

Sherlock ignored his brother and began rambling off his deductions. "Anthea prefers to sit by her sister, which is completely predictable, and her sister in turn prefers to sit by me, you know how vicious a motivator love can be. As I would prefer to sit as far away from _you_ as possible, that means Anthea will also be sitting rather far away from you until _somebody_ decides to do something about it."

"Sherlock," Mycroft warned. Relishing the opportunity to further annoy his brother, the detective chose not to take the hint.

"Insulting Molly? Really, Mycroft? What could you possibly have to gain by ridiculing her musical ability?" He scoffed. "All because your little _pen pal_ will never sit next to you. Shame, that. Then again, you always were rubbish at keeping a girlfriend, weren't you?"

A brief pause, then, "Sentiment. Such a curious little thing. A weakness, a defect, yet here we find it in abundance."

"Losing your touch, are we, Mycroft?" The comment was short, scathing, and incredibly smug.

"It isn't good to criticize, little brother. For as much as you observe things when they happen to others, you remain terribly ignorant when they happen to you."

And with that, the confused, indignant detective was left alone once more to wonder.

**ooooo**

Janine was in her room examining her wardrobe, trying to decide which color dress Sherlock might find more appealing when she heard a soft knock on her door.

"Janine? Can I come in?"

"Of course," Janine replied as she opened the door. When could she ever say no to Thea?

Anthea smiled gratefully, taking a seat on her sister's bed. "Have you decided on what you're wearing to dinner?" Janine asked, beginning to rummage through her closet for the third time.

"Oh, I suppose just this," Anthea said. "Haven't given it much consideration, really."

Janine poked her head out around the door of the wardrobe, frowning. "Thea, you're a terrible liar. What's the matter?"

"Nothing, I'm simply visiting," Anthea quickly supplied, flinching at the use of such a worthlessly trite expression.

Janine stepped all the way out of the closet, hands on her hips. "I think you already know how pointless that was. You've worked up the courage to walk all the way across the estate to see me; you can't give up now. So, I repeat: Whatever is the matter? Is it Mycroft?"

"Maybe. Then again, maybe not."

Janine sighed, sitting down next to her sister. "What has that idiot done to you?"

"He is _not_ an idiot," Anthea protested.

"You're stalling, and he most certainly is."

"He's been acting rather... Strange lately, that's all."

"Strange? In what way?" Janine asked, though she suspected she already knew.

"Well, you heard what he said at tea," Anthea huffed. "And while I know he can sometimes be a bit insensitive, comments of _that_ nature aren't very like him at all."

"Can I interrupt you, for just a moment?"

Anthea nodded.

"Please, Thea, keep in mind you've only written the man three times, and you've only seen him in person for a few days. Are you positive you know his character that well?"

"Yes." Anthea answered quickly and with determination, prompting another sigh from Janine.

"Continue."

"This one is slightly ridiculous," Anthea said quietly. "I'm not even sure I should be concerned about it, but -"

"The stalling, the stalling!" Janine said in exasperation. "Come _on_, Thea!"

"He refuses to talk to me," Anthea mumbled. Janine stared back at her, slightly stunned. "Other than a 'Good morning, Miss Watson' or 'Good afternoon, Miss Watson' when we see each other in the halls, he says nothing to me. I've tried striking up a conversation, but he always invents a petty excuse before running off to another part of the house." Here, she paused. "Have I done something wrong?"

"No, of course not!" Janine said, appalled. "That arse! Why, the first chance I get I'm telling John, or better yet Sher -"

"There's simply no reason to bother John, not when there's this much company in the house," Anthea cut in. "And Sherlock utterly despises his brother, I'd _hate_ to be the cause of any more drama there. It's just me being silly, Janine - there's no reason you need to worry anyone else about it. I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation, and besides, it's not important, anyway."

"It's _love! _It's incredibly important!" Janine cried. "Thea, I'm giving you two options. Either I find Mycroft and drag him in here this very minute, or you let me talk to John about it."

"You're not going to let me leave until I choose, are you?" Anthea's shoulders slumped considerably.

"Absolutely not."

"Then by all means, sort it out with John. I'd rather not cause a scene, if at all possible," Anthea sighed, standing and moving towards the door. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to find something to wear to dinner."

She disappeared down the hallway as Janine called after her, "Wear your grey dress! He likes that one best!"

Anthea let out a loud "Shhhh!" from around the corner, followed by a brief pause and then a quiet "Thank you."

Janine smiled to herself and closed her door, selecting her favorite purple dress from her wardrobe. She would go and find John right after she decided on a pair of shoes...

**ooooo**

_A bit of a cliffhanger this chapter!_

_Thank you so much for reading and for leaving such kind reviews! Please continue to let me know what you think!_

_~London Belle_


	8. Chapter 7

Janine rushed down the hall, past the empty parlor, and was halfway past the library before she realized who was sitting in it.

"Sherlock! Just the person I wanted to see," she said with a smile.

Sherlock groaned inwardly. Couldn't he have just _five_ bloody minutes of peace? "Good afternoon, Miss Watson. How can I be of assistance?" This was accompanied by one of his signature tight-lipped smiles.

"Do you happen to know where I might find John?" She gave him her best performance of innocence, though it was in all aspects unnecessary.

"I believe he has retired to his room," Sherlock answered, returning his attention to the periodic table spread out across his lap.

"Oh, I should have known. Thank you ever so much!" Janine said, drifting towards Sherlock's chair until she was standing right next to him.

"Is that all?" He asked, not bothering to look up from his text.

"What are you reading?" She peered over his shoulder at the colored chart.

"I _was_ examining the periodic table of the elements," Sherlock retorted, only narrowly avoiding snapping at her.

"How interesting! You're a man of science, then?" Janine flashed him her best smile.

"I believe you have an appointment to keep with your brother?"

"Oh! I'd almost forgotten about that," she giggled. "Silly me - must be off now! I'll see you at dinner, Sherlock," she added before hurrying from the room.

Sherlock made a mental note to be the first one down to dinner, lest he be stuck next to that woman _again_. He'd much prefer to sit by Molly, as she might provide him with some more stimulating conversation, devoid of frilly prattle such as social schedules and other meaningless gossip. And, as much as he hated to admit it, he was beginning to find that there was more to Molly than met the eye.

The detective shook his head to rid himself of his thoughts on the middle Hudson girl and instead refocused his attention on carbon isotopes, which was proving to be a much simpler subject at the moment.

**ooooo**

"John?" Janine asked, knocking on the door to her brother's room. "John? Are you in there?"

John promptly opened the door, giving his little sister a grin. "Hello, Janine. What can I do for you?"

Janine invited herself in and promptly sat down in an armchair in the corner, leaving John to take the one opposite. "It's about Anthea."

John's brow furrowed. "What's happened?"

The youngest Watson then proceeded to explain the entire scenario between Anthea and Mycroft, and the very minute she had finished John leapt out of his chair, enraged.

"Oh, _I'll_ give that prick something worth sulking about! Where is he? Where is that bloody worthless piece of -"

"John!" Janine interrupted him before he could finish the insult. "I _promised_ her I wouldn't make a scene! Now, sit down and calm yourself. Dinner is only a few hours away, and we are in desperate need of a quick solution."

John sank into the plush chair with a heavy sigh. "I suppose you're right," he conceded. "But can we at least tell Sherlock?"

"I promised her I wouldn't do that, either."

"You'd promise your entire life away for Thea!"

"You would, too, and you know it," Janine retorted, her tone stern.

"I would, wouldn't I?" John rolled his eyes. "Fine. Besides, you've always been too fond of arguing."

"Thank you," Janine huffed. "Now, as the host, do you think you can manage to seat them next to each other at dinner?"

"I don't see why not, if you think it will help."

"Excellent," Janine said, deserting her seat to pace back and forth across the room. John opened his mouth to reply, but she continued before he had the chance to get a word in. "We'll see how the drawing room festivities go when the time comes, but if my suspicions are correct, they'll have fixed things long before then."

"Your 'suspicions'? Janine, I think you've been spending too much time with Sherlock," John laughed.

Janine flushed very slightly, then composed herself. "Thank you, John, you've been most helpful. Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe you have a dinner to prepare - the sooner this is over, the better." She turned and flew out of the room before John could respond.

As the doctor stood, he suddenly realized he'd forgotten to ask Janine if he might talk to Mycroft before dinner. There were a few choice words he wanted to say to the government official, among them an uppercut and a right hook, though he'd never tell Thea.

Then again, Sherlock might solve the problem for him before he'd even gotten the chance to secure the seating arrangements.

**ooooo**

At last, it was time for dinner, and the entire party (save Mary) slowly began to filter into the dining room.

Anthea and Mycroft were seated together, as promised, though both seemed uncharacteristically despondent and quiet. John occupied the head of the table followed by Sherlock, who had placed himself between the doctor and Anthea in the hopes of avoiding Janine. When the youngest Watson realized that her usual seat had been taken, she unhappily resigned herself to sit across from Mycroft, leaving Molly to sit across from Sherlock and altogether creating a very uncomfortable dinner table.

Dinner passed in a series of awkward conversations about anything and everything, mostly started by John in an effort to play the role of host. Sherlock alternated between picking at his plate and examining Molly, who quickly grew uncomfortable under his sharp gaze. Janine tried to convince Anthea and Mycroft to talk (she had given up on convincing them to talk to _each other_ a while ago, now she simply wanted some form of communication from either of them besides a nod), but to no avail, and everyone was greatly relieved when the drawing room was opened for evening enjoyment.

Molly had spent the majority of her meal worrying about Mary and the reaction she might be met with when she came downstairs. Fifteen minutes after the group had started up a game of cards, she quietly excused herself to go and fetch her sister. Avoiding a scene had been her first and foremost goal, but John was so very thrilled with the prospect of seeing Mary again that he immediately leapt up from the table and began rushing about the room to prepare it for the eldest Hudson sister. To provide a warm enough place for her to sit, he pushed his own armchair close to the fire, which was built up to five times its original size. The doors and windows were tightly secured, and a pile of blankets and throws was brought from the linen closet in case the young lady might still feel cold. Finally, the only thing left to do was wait, and so the doctor began to pace the room anxiously to pass the time.

**ooooo**

"Are you sure you want to go? Nobody will blame you if you decide to stay up here," Molly asked Mary nervously, putting the finishing touches on her sister's hair.

"I'll be fine, Molly, do try not to worry so much. And my hair is lovely, thank you, but I think you've added enough pins," Mary giggled. Molly had used almost the entire box of hairpins, and was still absentmindedly nestling them throughout Mary's hair.

"I suppose," Molly sighed, plucking a few and returning them to their box. "Now, when we get downstairs, I want you to sit down and stay wrapped up. We'll find a place for you near the fire, and -"

"Molly, don't fuss," Mary said, standing. "I'll be perfectly warm, and I'll be sure to tell you if I'm not. I'm more worried about you - you've hardly talked to anyone since we came here! It's your night to socialize, do you hear me? No more of this fretting over me, I simply won't have it!" She swept out of the room before Molly could object, heading for the stairs.

The two entered the drawing room together, and Molly was surprised at the warmth with which Mary was received. Mycroft and Anthea both said their first words of the evening, Janine was exceptionally kind and welcoming, and John was positively ecstatic. Even Sherlock offered a smile and a "Welcome back, Miss Hudson," to the shock of almost everyone, save John. (The doctor knew his friend well enough to do a bit of deducing on his own, and it seemed the detective was willing to do almost anything to win Molly's favor, though he was not aware of it yet.)

As soon as everyone had had a chance to welcome Mary, John promptly whisked her off to her armchair, draping extra blankets over the arms should she feel the need to use them. He then proceeded to pull another chair up across from her, and the two spent much of the next hour and a half reacquainting themselves by the fire.

Though Janine had predicted the casual atmosphere of the drawing room enough to start up a conversation between Anthea and Mycroft, she was sadly proven wrong. If anything, the pair seemed even _more_ distant than they had at dinner. After she had finished playing her fifth card game and had had her fill of watching Sherlock stare over her shoulder at Molly and watching Mycroft stare over her head at Anthea, the youngest Watson took it upon herself to fix both of the impossible Holmes brothers for good. For Janine, who was not keen to leave Sherlock alone while he was clearly interested in another girl, this meant first interrupting her brother's present conversation with Mary (which was met with a scowl and a brusque "What could _possibly_ be so important, Janine?") to show him the unfortunate circumstances between the diplomat and the eldest Watson sister. Then, she returned to the detective in an effort to try and prove herself more interesting than mousy Molly Hudson, who was beginning to annoy her beyond reason. The girl certainly wasn't pretty, had no money, possessed no manners whatsoever, and held the most pitiful social connections she had ever seen. Why, then, was the detective so clearly head over heels for her? Janine decided she would have to act quickly, lest his affections become more... _permanent._

John, who was already irritated after being pulled away from Mary, was now incensed. "_Enough_ of this nonsense!" He muttered in exasperation. He excused himself, hastily and profusely apologizing to Mary before dashing to the kitchen. The doctor returned moments later with two cups of tea, which he marched over to Mycroft, who was currently brooding by himself in an armchair by the window. "Here," he said roughly, extending the cups to the government official.

"And why, Dr. Watson, would I be in need of two cups of tea?" Mycroft replied, amused.

_Dear God, what I wouldn't give to smack him in the jaw,_ John seethed. But he restrained himself, instead gritting his teeth and answering, "Take the tea, you git."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow but accepted the beverages anyway, waiting for further elaboration.

"Now, I want you to get your lazy arse up off that chair and go sit over there," John pointed to the empty seat on the couch next to Anthea, who was quietly reading a book.

"John, I don't think -"

"Just _do it,_" John interrupted, tone menacing. _He is certainly no stranger to intimidation, despite his obvious lack of height,_ Mycroft thought curiously.

"And what -"

"I don't care, Mycroft, I really don't. Just fix it. Apologize, make an excuse, just say _something."_ John cut him off again, answering the question before it was even asked. "_You_ made this mess, so _you're_ going to clean it up." And with that, the doctor walked away to rejoin Mary.

Mycroft sat and pondered the cups of tea for a good five minutes. It was only when he glanced up to meet John's death glare that he actually stood and approached Anthea, who made no move whatsoever to acknowledge his presence. He cleared his throat awkwardly, and finally she looked up at him.

"Yes?" She asked acquiescently, though he could tell she was not pleased to see him.

"For you, madam," he said stiffly, offering her one of the cups. She looked at him in confusion but accepted the tea, offering no objection as he sat down beside her. She took a sip of the brew silently, and just as he opened his mouth to try and start a conversation of some sort, she spoke.

"Two creams, no sugar. How did you know?"

The surprise on the diplomat's face must have been visible because she laughed, taking another sip. "It's lovely. Thank you."

Mycroft glanced across the room in bewilderment at John, who grinned in reply. The answer to his unspoken inquiry hit him plain as day, and the elder Holmes brother suddenly realized just how very lucky he was to have gotten on the good side of Dr. John Hamish Watson.

**ooooo**

Soon, Janine grew tired of flirting at Sherlock, who continually refused to reciprocate in any fashion, and resolved to demonstrate her accomplishments instead. Sitting down at the grand piano in the front of the room, she asked the company if they might like to dance. She was met with a resounding "Yes, please!" (Read: Only by John, everyone else remained deathly silent), and so she began to play.

Molly watched from her chair as first John and Mary, then Mycroft and Anthea swirled across the floor. She was particularly interested in her sister, who had not strayed from her seat by the fire all evening, as instructed. She also had not strayed from John all evening, and Molly was keeping a careful watch on the doctor. To her delight, he seemed more than enamored, and when Mary leaned to the side to wave to her with a radiant smile, Molly could not help but smile and wave back. Finally, she was content, and returned to her book with a renewed sense of relief.

Against his better judgement, Sherlock continued to observe Molly. However, unlike most people (or 'subjects', as he preferred to think of them), the middle Hudson sister was proving to be quite difficult to catalogue. The detective supposed this was because he had conversed very little with her, but recalled that dialogue did not always play a large role in collecting data. Maybe his problems came from limited study due to her constant absence in favor of attending Mary? No, that wasn't right, as she had spent each and every dinner downstairs. Whatever the reason, he soon found himself inclined to approach her, and a pointed stare from John only confirmed the notion. What, then, should be his plan of attack? _Ah, yes._ Dancing, of course. Not only would John be pleased, but he might have a chance to place Molly in his mental index at last.

And damned if he was willing to admit it, but somewhere in the back of his mind the detective simply wanted to talk to her. What could he say? It was as if the logical reasoning he usually couldn't do without had disappeared when confronted with a pretty girl in a pretty dress.

He took a deep breath and steadied himself, preparing his request in his head as he neared Molly, who was so deeply engrossed in her medical text that she did not notice him.

"Miss Hudson," he said quietly, causing her to look up with a start. "I was wondering if you might care to dance?"

**ooooo**

_Thank you so much, as always, for the lovely reviews and support! I know it's been a while since the last update, but I hope you will find that this slightly-longer-than-usual chapter was well worth the wait!_

_In response to previous reviews:_

_To both Black Night and The-Scorpio-Holmes-Sister-221B (a.k.a. SB): Thank you both! You are incredibly kind._

_~London Belle_


	9. Chapter 8

_"Miss Hudson," he said quietly, causing her to look up with a start. "I was wondering if you might care to dance?"_

**ooooo**

Molly looked up at him and smiled, but made no reply. Puzzled, Sherlock repeated the question.

"My apologies," Molly said sweetly. "I heard you, but needed a minute or two to gather my thoughts in response. Though I know you would delight in my saying 'Yes', that you might seize the opportunity to criticize me, I have decided I would prefer not to have my happy mood spoilt by petty insults. Therefore, while I appreciate your kindness, I am inclined to refuse your offer, Mr. Holmes."

_Excuse me?_

Sherlock's mind went completely, totally, and utterly blank.

There was no witty comeback at his disposal, no sarcastic comment to be made. His manners escaped him, his words failed him; he became entirely and hopelessly confounded by the suddenly not-so-delicate girl sitting in front of him. _What the __hell__ am I supposed to say to that?!_

"Nothing?" Molly giggled. "Has the great Sherlock Holmes run out of insults at last? I dare you to despise me _now_, Detective!"

Finally, Sherlock found his speech. "Indeed, I do not dare." What more was there to be said? This woman, who had taken the art of disdain and broken it down into a beautifully complex _science_, had bewitched him as no woman had ever done before. It didn't take Mycroft to tell him that he was in some serious sentimental danger.

Molly herself was rather surprised. That should have offended him; she had _intended_ it to, and instead she received _chivalry_? For Sherlock to demonstrate any chivalry at all was rare, that much she knew. Her best guess took into account her naive delivery; perhaps she should have been a little more harsh?

"I am terribly sorry to have disturbed you," Sherlock added. Molly thought it sounded stiff, but she heard something else behind the words - something she did not recognize. "Please, by all means, do not let me interrupt your reading. May I simply suggest Vesalius's diagrams, if you wish to educate yourself further in forensic pathology." He then slipped out of the room, considering it best to do so now while the others were occupied. He needed to sit alone for a while and think - the quandary that was Molly Hudson required a visit to his mind palace.

For an instant, Molly felt guilty for having chased Sherlock out of the room. Then again, all she had done was stand up for herself, and rightly so. She gazed down at her book, which enlightened the reader on various aspects of the human heart and other muscles when conducting an autopsy. Suddenly, she didn't feel much like reading anymore.

**ooooo**

Shortly afterwards, Mary suggested the party retire, to which the others heartily agreed. John raced upstairs to make sure there were enough covers on his guest's bed, while Molly walked her upstairs after a quick goodbye and goodnight. Mycroft and Anthea parted on lovely terms, each as secretly relieved as the other that the uncomfortable black cloud had lifted. Janine was the most excited she'd been all day, considering the entire evening had consisted of two very large successes. First of all, Thea was happy and Mycroft had stopped being a git. Second, Molly and Sherlock had had quite a magnificent row, and Janine had heard enough of it over the sound of the piano to be sure that Sherlock would certainly never want to be in the company of that girl ever again, which was excellent news.

And now that she thought about it, the youngest Watson could find yet _another_ reason to be elated: Mary's recovery meant that the two sisters would be leaving Scotland Yard in the near future, so there would be Janine and _only_ Janine for Sherlock to focus on. Could this evening _get_ any better? She practically skipped upstairs to her bedroom, much to the amusement of Anthea, who was following behind her.

"Mind you don't trip," Anthea called after her sister.

"Oh, Thea, I've no reason to worry," Janine called over her shoulder. "Simply no reason at all!"

Anthea rolled her eyes. "What could you possibly find so entertaining at this hour?"

Janine stopped in front of her bedroom door, turning to face her sister. "Absolutely _everything_," she said with a grin. Anthea sighed and shook her head.

"Well, as long as it doesn't keep you up all night, whatever pleases you," she said as Janine closed the door.

"Goodnight, Thea!" She heard through the wood.

"Goodnight," she replied, earning herself a giggle from the other side.

_She's a handful, that one,_ Anthea thought as she made her way to her room. _Then again, I suppose I ought to thank her, she smiled to herself. She __did__ tell me to wear the gray dress, and I dare say she was right._

**ooooo**

The next morning, Mycroft was the first one awake. He dressed and wandered down to breakfast an hour and a half early, asking the various staff he met along the way if they might show him to the kitchen. When finally he found it, he expected to see it swarming with chefs and housemaids and the like, but found only a few employees dashing about the large space. _Maybe they sleep in, too, _he thought in amusement.

Making his way over to the stove, he pulled a kettle off of the back burner, crossing to the sink to fill it with water. He then proceeded to make a cup of tea, brushing off each member of the household that tried to come to his aid. Appalled by the thought of a houseguest making their own tea, the ladies simply could not figure out why the man in the three piece suit refused to let them help.

When he had finished, Mycroft plucked a saucer from the drying rack of dishes and asked one of the women floating around if he might have a piece of paper and a pen. The materials were procured quickly, and he neatly penned a short note, slipping the edge of the paper under the cup so as not to lose it. He thanked the staff and promptly left the kitchen, leaving the maids to gossip.

Mounting the stairs, the diplomat approached one of the many closed doors in the main second floor hallway, setting the cup down in front of its threshold. He then escaped to the library, where he knew he would find a moment of peace before the day began.

**ooooo**

Anthea woke early, snatching her dressing gown off of its hook as she shivered from the cold brought on by stepping onto a wooden floor in bare feet. She then set about straightening herself up, and had just opened her door to visit the bathroom when she noticed a little white cup sitting at her feet. When she saw the note pinned between the cup and its matching saucer, she picked the china up and, after peering down the hallway in both directions and seeing no sign of anyone, brought it back into her bedroom, closing the door again behind her. She sat down at her dressing table to examine the small piece of paper curiously, surprised to find that the tea was still hot, and was also pale in color.

**Two creams, no sugar. Good morning, Anthea. MH**

She smiled, taking a sip of the brew. She considered this the final apology, and a suitable one at that. She would have to remember to thank him when the party convened for breakfast in a few hours.

As she started to comb her hair, an idea formed in the back of Anthea's mind.

She would also have to remember to talk to John at breakfast, as there was a little question she needed to ask him.

**ooooo**

Two hours later, the entire group was seated around the table for breakfast. Unlike dinner last night, this meal was filled with lively conversation on behalf of almost every guest, save Sherlock, who preferred to pretend he was throughly engrossed in picking at his eggs.

"So, Sherlock," Janine began. Yet again, the annoying woman was seated next to the detective, who very much wished he could be absolutely anywhere else in the entire world at that very moment. "What's it like, being a detective in the big city?"

"Consulting detective," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"Excuse me?" Janine said. "I didn't quite catch that."

"_Consulting_ detective," Sherlock spat in frustration. "I'm a _consulting_ detective, people _consult_ me, the police _consult_ me."

"Oh," Janine flushed. "Well then, what's it like being a _consulting_ detective in the big -"

Sherlock cut her off before she had the chance to finish. "I solve crimes, catch criminals."

"I see," Janine said, even though she didn't. Sherlock returned to his eggs, and she stayed mercifully silent for the rest of the meal.

Meanwhile, on the opposite end of the table, Molly, Mary, and John were discussing transportation arrangements for the afternoon.

"I think it's best if we return home, don't you, Molly?" Mary asked.

"Yes, we wouldn't want to overstay our welcome," Molly agreed.

"Oh, no, please, stay!" John objected. "I hardly think your sister is in any condition to -"

"My sister is perfectly healthy," Molly cut in. "And I think our mother is rather worried about us already, but thank you for the kind offer." She added, smiling at him.

"Then let me at least offer you my carriage," John said. "I'll have the driver bring it back, it's no trouble."

"We couldn't possibly -" Mary began, shocked, but now John was the one to interrupt.

"I insist! Please," he added, and how could Mary say no? So it was settled that they should leave after lunch, much to the doctor's disappointment.

Finally, seated across from the sisters, Anthea decided she had better thank Mycroft for the tea, lest the formality be forgotten entirely in the sea of activity.

"Mycroft," she began, catching his attention. "The tea this morning was truly lovely, thank you for thinking of me." It came out sounding a little stiff, but the words created the desired effect. The diplomat beamed, subconsciously straightening his jacket.

"It was the least I could do," he replied, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. "I do hope I was able to recall your preferences correctly?"

Anthea couldn't help but laugh; the way she liked her tea seemed like such a silly thing for a 'minor' official in the British government to worry about. Didn't he have wars to prevent and that sort of thing?

"Yes, it was perfect," she said as a look of slight confusion spread across his features. "You make an excellent cup of tea, if I do say so myself."

The confusion was replaced by a smile as Mycroft appeared to be preening his ego. "Thank you. The garden is -"

"Oh, my apologies, would you hold that thought for just one moment?" Anthea apologized hastily, pushing back her chair as she watched John do the same. "I've a question for my brother, but I'll be back in a minute," she called over her shoulder as she followed John out into the kitchen.

"John!" She said, smiling as her brother turned around. "I have a tiny question for you, do you have a minute?"

"Sure, Thea, but make it quick," John replied.

"What kind of brandy do we have in the cellar?"

**ooooo**

Anthea returned to the table as promised, but was surprised to find it empty, save Mycroft, who had not moved an inch.

Still standing, she apologized again. "I'm so sorry about that, but it was a matter of importance. Now, what was it you were going to ask me before I so very rudely interrupted?" She eyed him expectantly.

"I... I was wondering if..." Mycroft began, suddenly at a loss for words. He wasn't sure what the strange feeling was that had taken up residence in the pit of his stomach, but he abhorred it, as it was a somewhat unhappy cross between nausea and indigestion.

"Yes?" Anthea prompted.

That's when John stuck his head around the corner from inside the kitchen, and said with a sigh, "For God's sake, Mycroft, really! Anthea Watson, Mycroft Holmes cordially invites you to accompany him in the garden before tea. Do you accept?"

"Most definitely," Anthea laughed.

"There. See, Mycroft? Easy. Now, next time, handle it yourself, if you wouldn't mind," John huffed. "I'm getting a little sick of rushing to your rescue all the time." And with that, he disappeared around the corner again, leaving an Anthea who was trying very hard not to laugh with a slightly embarrassed Mycroft Holmes.

**ooooo**

"Mary," Molly said nervously, watching her sister rush about the room. "Wouldn't you rather one of the maids do that for you?"

"Oh, no, I'm fine," Mary replied, throwing open one of her large leather trunks. "Those poor things have enough to do without my complaining!"

"But I really don't think it's a good idea to be exerting yourself so much; you've only been out of bed since last night!" Molly fretted. "At least slow down a little!"

"No, no, mustn't do that," Mary answered over her shoulder. "For one thing, I've energy to burn after begin locked up in here for days on end, and even if I _did_ want to slow down, I have to be down in the library in an hour." This was said with a flourish as two dresses sailed into the trunk from the closet across the room. "I'll save a dress for lunch; that one should suffice," she muttered absentmindedly, selecting a pale blue dress from the assortment now spread across the bed.

"What's to be done in the library?" Molly asked curiously.

"It's nothing, really; John said he had a few medical texts I might be interested in, and he wanted me to see them before we left."

Molly laughed. "You say that as if you are simply going for a walk!"

Mary looked at her, confused. "Should I have said it any other way? It's only a couple of dusty old books!"

Molly paused, but under the realization that her sister was, in fact, serious, she sighed. "Mary, that isn't just an invitation to spend time in John's library, it's an invitation to spend time _with John_."

Mary stared at her sister as if the thought had never occurred to her. "Oh," she said. After a pause, she smiled and added, "I suppose I should change, then, shouldn't I?"

Molly grinned in reply. "Yes, I think you should. That dress will look lovely on you, and I'm sure John will agree."

Mary laughed, then the smile dropped from her face almost instantly. "What am I doing, packing my trunk? I've an _appointment_ to keep!" She slammed the lid of the huge leather suitcase shut, stepping out of her shoes as she did so. "Molly, dear, if you would, pass me those pins!"

**ooooo**

_Thank you all so very much for your kind reviews - I love to hear from you all!_

_I hope you are enjoying reading the story as much as I'm enjoying writing it - it seems as if we've quite a lot of 'appointments' to keep next chapter!_

_In response to previous reviews:_

_Black Night: I have to say, I'm rather fond of our dear doctor myself, mind-reading capabilities and all!_

_The-Scorpio-Holmes-Sister-221B (a.k.a. SB): Thank you for the kind words! And I'm afraid our dear friend Janine won't be getting any kinder... You know how jealousy works._

_~London Belle_


	10. Chapter 9

"Wait!" Molly called frantically. "Don't go yet!" She yanked a strand of pearls off of the tiny dressing table and dashed out into the hallway, stopping her sister just as she was about to descend the stairs.

"Molly, I'm going to be late!" Mary said in playful exasperation, turning around with her hands planted firmly on her hips. "What is it?"

Molly quickly clasped the necklace around Mary's neck, stepping back to admire her work. "Perfect," she said decisively. "_Now_ you can go."

Mary reached up to weigh the necklace in her hands. "Pearls? Molly, it's only -"

"Go, go, John is waiting for you!" Molly said, shooing her down the steps. "I'll see you at lunch!"

Mary sighed, making her way down to the first floor and stopping to give Molly a wave before heading in the direction of the library. "Save me a seat!" She called as she disappeared down the main hallway.

Molly smiled to herself. For whatever reason, she had a sneaking feeling she wouldn't have to.

**ooooo**

Sherlock had locked himself in John's study, away from the noise and the distractions and the horribly awful _people_ that refused to let him think. Since he had arrived at Scotland Yard, he'd had barely any time to visit his mind palace, and it was beginning to annoy him. If he didn't visit regularly, things grew dark and dirty, and Sherlock absolutely _hated_ 'spring cleaning'.

But today's trip was more than just scheduled maintenance or memory practice - it was data sorting, the kind that took hours on end and was therefore typically done during John's occasional shift at the London clinic. More specifically, the detective wanted to organize the room devoted to Molly Hudson, which was currently filled with heaps and piles of mismatched pieces of information.

He settled himself in an armchair by the fire, paying no mind to the clock, which tried in vain to remind him how rapidly lunch was approaching. He wasn't hungry, anyway, not that he usually was.

Pressing his palms together under his chin, Sherlock immersed himself in Molly's room. The first items to catch his attention belonged to a collection of her physical attributes: Her hair, her eyes, her height, her perfume, her shoe size. He placed them in a drawer and tried to move on, but for some reason her eyes begged more attention. He didn't understand why, as they didn't seem anything special at first. A warm shade of brown; he'd seen much more attractive specimens before. Somehow, though, _hers_ were different, and he found himself spending far more time examining them than was entirely necessary. _Moving on_, he thought hurriedly, forcing the image into its drawer.

Next, he came across her conversation file; things she had said either to him or to others. He unearthed the very first conversation he had had with her, when she had played cards with him as his partner. Replaying her voice from his memory, he recalled how she had surprised him with her sudden wit that seemed to have come from nowhere. Originally labeling her as a shy girl with no backbone or intelligence, the detective had been even more unsettled when she had stood up for herself against Mycroft, literally parroting his own mind palace/hard drive philosophy to the entire room. For one thing, challenging a seasoned politician (especially one as aggravating as his older brother) was not something people normally did, at least, not over things like poorly-aimed insults. And, even so, to find somebody who understood the way his mind worked, somebody who followed his same principles and who actually _thought_, was... Incredible.

Finally, his thoughts turned to their most recent meeting, his declined invitation to dance. Somehow, the scathing rejection had made him admire Molly all the more - _Wait. Go back._

...had made him admire Molly all the more.

_Admire._

That was _definitely_ the wrong word. He did not _admire_ anybody; least of all a woman who quite clearly could not even stand to be in the same room as him. No, he must be getting hungry after all, causing his mind to slip.

He removed himself from his palace and opened his eyes to stare at the offending clock. Despite his efforts, it still managed to tell him that lunch was mere minutes away, and why wasn't he downstairs yet?

Against his will (and better judgement), Sherlock unlocked the study door and made his way to the dining room, dimly aware of a new thought beginning to form in the back of his mind. He pulled it out, took one look at it, and shoved it far into the dark recesses of the basement.

He was _not_ apologizing to Molly Hudson. Not now, not _ever_.

He couldn't.

**ooooo**

Molly arrived at the lunch table fairly early, seating herself next to Janine with a smile. "Will your brother be joining us today?" She asked, gesturing towards the empty seat at the head of the table. "I believe he is usually seated by now, isn't he?"

"I thought so," Janine replied politely. "But he seems to have disappeared into the library."

Molly tried very hard not to indicate that she knew of any such engagement, but she was fit to burst. So she had been right after all; John and Mary were off to a perfect start! She had to say, she'd never seen a more perfect couple, and the two seemed to have been truly made for each other.

Janine, however, was in a slightly rotten mood. She still didn't approve of the Hudson family; their social connections and economic situation were simply _horrid_, not to mention the family itself. With a mother who refused to stop talking and three girls who were nowhere close to any standards of beauty or accomplishment, Janine was beginning to despise the Hudsons more and more. To make matters worse, she felt upstaged by all of them, particularly Molly, who was proving herself to be Sherlock's chief object of interest. The only thing exciting enough to pull her out of her misery was the arrival of Mycroft and Anthea. She watched as they descended the stairs together arm in arm, the former smiling affectionately down at the latter, who was laughing gaily.

"Oh, this is terrible of me," Anthea sighed as she sat down next to Janine, Mycroft in turn sitting across from her. "We really shouldn't laugh, Mycroft, it isn't decent."

"I believe, given the situation, decency can be overlooked," the diplomat replied with a mischievous grin, sending Anthea into another peal of laughter.

The next to arrive was Sherlock, who seated himself across from Molly to avoid being stuck next to his brother. It was not where he wanted to be, given his newfound discovery of his infatuation with her, but he had no choice if the next major crisis was to be avoided. Anyway, whether he liked it or not, he didn't want to spoil Mycroft's mood, lest his brother begin to tear at the detective out of spite.

Lunch began without either John or Mary, and was fifteen minutes begun when they both rushed in to take the only available seats left - he at the head of the table and she between the two Homes brothers.

"Oh, please forgive us, everyone," Mary began. "We were simply having a discussion and -"

"And we lost track of time," John finished for her. "Our sincerest apologies for deserting the luncheon table at such an hour." Mary flushed slightly in embarrassment, but John nodded with a smile to reassure her.

"It's perfectly alright with me," Janine declared. "Seeing as the guests of honor have only a few hours left to spend in our company."

"Indeed," Mycroft added, and Anthea nodded in agreement. Sherlock remained sullenly silent.

Lunch passed rather quickly, filled with interesting conversation and lively debates on behalf of everyone but Sherlock, who was still trying to come to terms with himself. At last, it was time to separate again, and the party dispersed as quickly as it had reconvened. Mycroft and Anthea left for the gardens, Mary and John returned to the library, and Janine and Molly retired to the parlor for casual conversation before the Hudsons left for home. Still in a sour mood, Sherlock locked himself in the study again to brood.

A short while later, the carriage was prepared and loaded, and Molly was sent to fetch her sister. She quietly knocked on the library door, pushing the huge oak panels open gently when she heard a "Come in," from inside.

John and Mary were seated next to each other on the sofa, a large medical encyclopedia spread out across their laps, featuring a detailed diagram of the brain. "Oh, hello, Molly," both said at once, prompting a flush to spread across both countenances.

Molly smiled awkwardly. "Mary, the carriage is ready for us, it's time to say goodbye."

"Oh! I'd almost forgotten," Mary cried, setting the book aside and leaping up from her seat. John followed hastily, wishing the two a safe journey home and expressing his delight in their stay. He escorted them into the foyer, where the rest of the group was gathered to say their goodbyes as well.

Molly and Mary said their goodbyes, too, relieved to be heading home. John, ever the gracious host, accompanied them down the drive to the carriage, and Molly was rendered speechless as she watched Mary give him a quick peck on the cheek before closing the carriage door. She waved to him as the coach pulled out of the driveway, and to her sister's delight, the doctor waved back, a huge grin stretched across his features.

"Oh, I do so hope we'll see them again soon," Mary sighed.

"Me, too," Molly said quietly, and she found she meant the words wholeheartedly.

**ooooo**

After the girls had left, Mycroft and Anthea again returned to the garden path, content to simply wander until it was time for tea. The pair lapsed in and out of conversation, occasionally choosing to enjoy each other's company in comfortable silence, a luxury not usually afforded to either individual. One such period had just begun when they heard John calling them from a distance behind them.

"Mycroft!" He summoned from the front steps of the house. "There's a letter for you!"

Now, Mycroft was not a social man by nature, and as such letters addressed to him typically involved broken treaties, assassination threats, and other such mishaps that commonly occurred within the British government. These matters required large amounts of paperwork and... shall we say... _persuasion_ to fix, which in turn meant hours of sitting at a desk surrounded by countless files. Ever the diplomat, Mycroft would never complain, but he simply despised his work sometimes, especially when he had to work long into the night, which was more often than he'd care to admit. Furthermore, the thought of spending such a night when he was _supposed_ to be on temporary leave was appalling, and the realization that he would have to leave Anthea's company for an empty, lonely study was even more so.

All of this contributed to the scowl that now darkened the government official's face as he led Anthea back towards the front steps. When they reached John, Mycroft took the letter, opened it, scanned the first few lines, and sighed.

"Is everything alright?" Anthea asked.

"I'm afraid I shall have to retire early," Mycroft began. "It seems there is a problem back in London that requires my immediate attention. Thank you, Dr. Watson, for the post. Good day, Anthea." Reluctantly, he slipped the letter into his pocket and started for the study, resigning himself to a very, _very_ long afternoon. Really, must the Prime Minister displease _so_ many assassins? He was finding the cleanup quite tiresome.

Anthea watched him go, wishing she might help but knowing he would never allow her to do so. Instead, she turned to John, saying, "Brother dear, remember that discussion we had in the kitchen this morning? A bottle of Vintage Marquis, if you don't mind."

John began to make his way to the kitchen with his eldest sister in tow, calling over his shoulder, "_Please_ tell me it isn't for yourself, Thea."

Anthea laughed. "Me? A brandy drinker? I don't think so, John. You've nothing to worry about!"

John sighed, shaking his head. When at last they arrived, he asked one of the resident chefs if he would procure the bottle, and it was brought up within minutes. The doctor handed it to Anthea suspiciously, unsure as to what she might need it for if not for herself.

"Thank you, John," she gave him her best smile. "I'll take care of the rest."

John muttered something and shook his head again before turning in the direction of the sitting room, leaving Anthea alone amidst the flurry of activity. When he was out of earshot, she turned to the nearest maid and asked if she might have access to a decanter. The maid gave her an odd look, but complied, bringing a small crystal model to her. Anthea thanked her and found herself a small spot of countertop in the corner, pouring some of the brandy into the container. She swirled it around a bit, then requested a glass, into which she transferred a healthy amount. Then, she placed the items back onto the counter and carried the glass with her upstairs to her room, where she sat at her desk and proceeded to write a note. She brought both items with her to the closed door of the study, setting them down in front of the threshold gently, so as not to make any noise. Taking a deep breath, she knocked softly on the wood twice, escaping up the stairs again before the door opened. When she was safely back in her room again, Anthea smiled to herself. It was the least she could do, and besides, she hated paperwork, too.

**ooooo**

Mycroft held his head in his hands, elbows leaning on the edge of the oak desk. He had been working for only an hour, yet he was already feeling the effects of sitting for too long. So when he heard a knock reverberate through the stale air of the study, it was with relief that he excused himself from his chair to cross the room and answer the door. However, it was with great confusion that he welcomed himself to the sight of an empty hallway. He examined the hallway throughly, even peering up the stairs, but saw no one, and was about to close the door again when he noticed a small cup sitting at his feet, a note pinned under it.

Grinning, he picked up the cup and the note, bringing them back inside the study to the desk where he sat. He didn't have to read the note to know who the brandy was from, but he found himself reading the small slip of paper anyway.

**A little something to help you restore balance to the universe. -Anthea**

He took a sip of the drink, suddenly feeling a little more motivated than before. He figured if he hurried, he might be able to finish in time to join the others in the drawing room after dinner - _oh, who was he kidding, really? _He'd rush to see _her_ again before she retired for the night.

Under any other circumstances, this realization would have upset him greatly. It was sentimental, it was petty, and it clearly went against half of what he believed himself.

This time, if he was to be quite honest with himself, he didn't care.

**ooooo**

_Thank you, my loyal readers, for your patience!_

_I do so love to hear from you, so please, by all means, review, review, review!_

_~London Belle_


	11. Chapter 10

"Gregory!" John cried in astonishment. "My God, it's been months!" He leapt out of his armchair to greet the Detective Inspector, who was dripping wet due to the storm that had begun outside.

"And hello to you, Doctor!" Lestrade grinned, offering his coat to the coachman who had followed him inside with his bags. "I was in the area with a triple suicide case; thought I'd stop in for a visit. Hope you don't mind?"

"No, not at all!" John replied. "But keep the triple-suicide talk to a minimum, would you? You know how Sherlock gets," he added with a laugh.

"Sherlock! Why, is he here?" Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, positively _everyone's_ here, Detective Inspector," John sighed. "I'll call them down; did you remember to bring some cold case files for our detective?"

Lestrade pulled a thick stack of folders out from inside his jacket. "Never leave home without them."

"Excellent!" The doctor grinned. "I was beginning to worry about him, what with all the company we've had of late. Since the ball, we've met this lovely family of girls - the Hudsons, if you've heard of them? - and we've been hosting the eldest while she fell ill. Then, the middle sister came, too, and so we've had such a full house for the past couple of days, I thought he might snap!"

"Girls, eh?" Lestrade laughed.

John faked astonishment. "Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, you are well and happily married!"

" 'Married', yes, 'well and happily', not so much," Lestrade sighed, running a hand through his hair. "The wife and I have been getting into a lot of rows lately - that's why I took a case so far away from London, actually. Thought maybe it would do us some good to have some time apart, sort things out a bit."

"You'll pull through, you always do," John tried to reassure his friend. "Now, then, _there_ they are! Move quickly, everyone, Gregory's here!" He called up the stairs.

First came Janine, then Anthea, followed by Sherlock. Mycroft arrived a moment later, deciding he could spare a few minutes to greet the new arrival. Hellos were said, handshakes distributed, and soon after everyone filed into the drawing room except Mycroft, who hastened back to his desk. Anthea had given him a rather pretty smile, that she might say hello to him amidst the frenzy of excitement, and he found it did wonders for his work ethic.

"For you," Lestrade said, producing the cold case files and handing them to Sherlock. "That's half of my entire archive; if you'll be needing some more, I can send someone out to fetch them."

Sherlock examined the packet quickly before answering breathlessly, "Thank you, Detective Inspector. I shall get started right away - oh, John, did you see? Hangings, suicides, serial killers - it's Christmas!"

John sighed as Anthea and Janine looked at each other and made a face. "Sherlock..."

"Timing?" The detective looked slightly sheepish.

"Timing." John replied. "But never mind that; I agree, it's perfect to keep you busy."

"_Busy_? I do not need to be kept _busy_, John, it's my _work_," the detective huffed.

"Sure, Sherlock. Whatever you say," John rolled his eyes.

"And you two," Lestrade said, turning to Janine and Anthea. "Pretty as ever. Are you sure neither of you are settled yet? Seems to me you both should have fellas lining up 'round the whole estate!"

Janine laughed, while her sister flushed. "Wouldn't that be nice," the former giggled. "Well, for what it's worth, Thea has My -" she was stopped by a foot crashing down painfully on top of her own.

"_Mind_ your own business!" Anthea overlapped, covering up her sister's abrupt silence. Lestrade simply shrugged and moved to answer Sherlock, who wanted to know specific details concerning a kidnapping in one of the files.

"What was _that_ for?" Janine whispered.

"So you don't go advertising things that aren't true, _that's_ what for!" Anthea snapped, also in a whisper.

"Hmph," Janine huffed. "Denial doesn't suit you, Thea." She stood and wandered over to Sherlock, who was now sitting by himself on the sofa and flipping through yet more murderous files.

_Denial? How insulting, _Anthea thought sullenly. _I am __not__ in denial._ She didn't care how ridiculous it sounded; it was true.

Across the room, Janine promptly sat down next to Sherlock, who was now poring over a rather gruesome quadruple homicide. She steeled herself, then peered over the detective's shoulder.

"Have you solved it yet?" She asked.

Sherlock rifled through the papers once more, then scoffed, "Hmmph," with a triumphant grin. "Yes," he added.

"Who is the murderer?" Janine smiled as the detective looked down at her with a raised eyebrow.

"The last victim's aunt," Sherlock began. "The first three were 'accidents', in a way - the girl had been missing for a year, but the aunt eventually discovered where she was living and four possible aliases she might be using, so she scoured the area for girls with the same names. The last one she killed was the right one, her real niece."

"Interesting," Janine pretended to be intrigued, as she could see how excited the detective got when he was on a case (and, if she was to be completely honest, she found him infinitely more adorable when he was animated). "Why did she want to kill her niece?"

Sherlock sighed. "That much is obvious. The aunt's brother, or the girl's father, had recently passed away, leaving a large portion of his fortune to his only child. The rest of the money went to the aunt, but she didn't take it very well."

"How could you tell?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes before launching into his deductions, starting with the aunt before moving to the cadavers and finally, the deceased brother. "It's perfectly clear once you look at the pattern of blood splattered on the wall," he finished with a smirk.

"Can you do that with anybody?" Now she really was interested.

"What, deduce them?" He asked, and she nodded. "Of course. I can tell you what every person in this room had for breakfast, who they'll be sitting next to tonight at dinner, their shoe size, and practically anything else you'd ever want to know about them. Shall we start with John?"

Janine laughed as the detective proceeded to pick apart his friend, predicting tonight's menu based off of his gait. "Lighter than usual, longer strides, we're having one of his favorites. Not something messy, you'd see creases in his shirt where he would have bent over the table or a stain, so it isn't veal. Must be risotto, then, taking into account the smell coming from the kitchen."

"Fantastic!" Janine watched as Sherlock glowed. "Tell me about the Detective Inspector."

It was definitely better not having mousy Molly here, she decided. She moved a little closer to the detective, who was so focused on Lestrade's shoes that he didn't even notice.

Much better.

**ooooo**

Soon, it was time for dinner, and the group moved into the dining room. John insisted Lestrade take the seat at the head of the table, placing himself to the DI's right. Sherlock sat on Greg's other side, and Janine quickly sat down next to the detective as Anthea filled in the space next to her brother. Mycroft remained shut inside the study, with no word on when he might emerge. The eldest Watson had sincerely hoped he might be able to make it to dinner, but it seemed as if his work had taken longer than he'd originally anticipated.

_Oh, well. _Nothing to fuss over; she'd have the chance to talk to him tomorrow, if she liked.

"Thea?" Janine tapped her finger on the table in Anthea's line of view. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, fine. Why do you ask?" Anthea asked in confusion.

"Well, you seem to have thoroughly mangled your appetizer, and you've never been one to pick at your food," Janine said.

Anthea looked down at her plate and was met with what used to be a perfectly respectable spanakopita, now dissected into something unrecognizable. "Oh."

Janine sighed. "Oh, Thea. He'll be finished soon, promise." She turned to laugh at something Sherlock had just said before Anthea could reply, a look of indignation upon the elder sister's face.

"Another deduction - how clever!" Janine said brightly. John gave his sister a questioning look, but she ignored him and continued to spew compliments. "I honestly don't know how you do it!"

"Neither do I," Lestrade added. "Speaking of which, you should have seen Anderson today, Sherlock! Raving on and on about his theory regarding one of our newer cases - surely you remember the one with the horses? - and the minute he saw the results of that lab test you did, he shut right up. Had the entire forensics unit laughing at him!"

"Yes, well, Philip has always been quick to prove his idiocy," Sherlock said with a smirk.

"Hang on," John cut in. "Now that I think about it, didn't Molly say she had a cousin named Anderson?"

"It's a rather common name, John," Sherlock replied in a bored tone. "Besides, she can't possibly be related to that incompetent imbecile."

John gave the detective an interesting look, one Sherlock couldn't remember seeing before. _Odd._

"What was the test about, Sherlock?" Janine tried redirecting the attention to herself.

"If I remember correctly, which of course I do," began the detective. "It was an analysis of dirt samples and pollen caught in the horses' shoes, was it not, Graham?"

"Greg," John corrected him. "Greg, Sherlock. We'll have to work on remembering _that_ correctly."

"Greg? Really?" Sherlock seemed slightly taken aback. "A new alias for a country case, Inspector?"

"Sherlock, _that's his name,_" John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Well, with all of the other information in that remarkable brain, how do you expect him to remember names all the time?" Janine scoffed. That created an awkward lull in conversation; John and Lestrade looked slightly annoyed, while Sherlock watched the woman sitting next to him with a puzzled expression.

Meanwhile, in the study, Mycroft sat back and observed his work with a satisfied smile. The files were all stacked according to importance, the contacts were labeled and neatly put away, the letters had been sent, and the Prime Minister was safe once again. He pushed the last stack of papers off to one side with a sigh, and glanced up at the clock on the wall. It seemed he had missed the appetizer - how tedious to have to arrive in the middle of the wine selection, but it had to be done if he wished to see Anthea. He started down the hallway, picking up faint strains of conversation and laughter from the dining room. When he reached the doorway, he hesitated, unsure of whether his late arrival was worth the fuss it might cause. Then he noticed Anthea, who smiled that ever-so-pretty smile in Janine's general direction. The empty seat next to her was the final deciding factor; he straightened his jacket, took a deep breath, and entered the room with a polite "Please, excuse me - I do hope I haven't missed much?"

"Mycroft! So glad you could make it - no, please, sit!" John had known the Holmes brothers for long enough to know how to be flexible.

The diplomat sat next to Anthea, who turned and gave _him_ that smile, and suddenly he found himself slightly (read: _utterly_) brain dead.

"All finished saving Britain from the next war?" She asked.

He nodded.

"Good; I've been waiting for some one to talk to all evening! I'd join them on cases and deductions," here she waved a hand in the direction of the others, "But I'm afraid my rather average mind wouldn't be able to keep up with your brother's."

_That insufferable show-off, _Mycroft seethed. "I should apologize; he does tend to make people feel that way. Rest assured, my dear, _that_ level of arrogance is entirely undesirable." He narrowed his eyes in his brother's direction as the main course was set in front of him.

"Careful, brother dear," Sherlock called from across the table. "Wouldn't want to spoil the diet, would we?"

Mycroft grimaced, pushing his plate away.

"Please, Sherlock, not now," John muttered.

But of course, when his brother was involved, Sherlock refused to listen to reason. "Terribly sorry, Anthea, hate to have to tell you this way. And I hear that dessert is Belgian chocolate cake; will we be skipping _that_ as well?"

"Sherlock Holmes, you had better shut the hell up _this very minute_ or I will _personally_ toss those cold cases in the garbage," John hissed. That got the detective to stop talking, but it didn't stop him from smirking.

"_Mycroft_ will eat what he chooses, thank you," Anthea said coldly. "And quite frankly, Sherlock, I could care less."

She received blank stares from everyone at the table but Sherlock, who continued to look as smug as ever. John's only thought was: _Jesus, Thea._ In some form or another, it resonated throughout the entire party.

"At the expense of sounding childish, I suppose I might ask you the same question, brother mine," Mycroft spat after the pause, sending the detective into a sulk.

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose again. It was going to be an _impossibly_ long evening.

**ooooo**

_Hello, all! Thank you so much for reading and for leaving such lovely comments - it's such a treat to write for such a wonderful community!_

_The introduction of Lestrade brings another familiar face back to Saint Bartholomew's next chapter; the IQ of the entire street will be lowered!_

_In response to previous reviews:_

_Cantuono: Thank you! I have to say, that part was the most fun to write!_

_InMollysWildestDreams: Yay, more Mythea!_

_Black Night: I felt an extra treat was in order to make up for my absence - and that's what happens when you've got no Internet for a few days and some time to kill! Thank you so very much - after all, what is a detective without his egotism?_

_~London Belle_


	12. Chapter 11

Molly heard the doorbell chime from upstairs, and she hurried down to open the front door. She had invited Sally over to tell her all about her visit to Scotland Yard, and a bright smile was on her face as she turned the knob. "Oh, Sally, I'm so glad you could -" she stopped short.

That was not Sally's carriage at the end of the front walk, and that was not Sally standing on the front porch. That was someone very different.

"Hello, Miss Hudson! I am so very sorry if you were expecting someone else," came the polite reply.

The bright smile turned false almost instantly. "Oh, no, not at all," Molly said, ushering the guest inside. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"Didn't your mother tell you? I've come to stay here at Saint Bart's!" He grinned as two footmen came in with his bags.

"Do forgive my memory, but I believe your visit was expected to be much later?" _This __cannot__ be happening. _

"You remember correctly," he laughed. "But my employment in London terminated much earlier than expected, and your mother did say to come whenever I became available, so here I am!"

"How lovely," Molly said through clenched teeth. "Shall I call the others down to meet you?"

"Oh, if you would!" He replied, settling himself into the parlor. "I should very much like to see your sisters."

Molly dragged herself to the bottom of the stairs. "Mother? Mary? Irene? Philip is here!" She winced as she said the words.

She had only _just_ returned from Scotland Yard, where she had found herself in the company of one arrogant nuisance by the name of Sherlock Holmes; was it really possible that she now had to entertain yet _another_?

As her mother and sisters came downstairs to greet Anderson, Molly suddenly remembered Sally. _She had got on rather well with Philip, hadn't she?_ Maybe she could invite her friend to dinner that night; that way her talkative cousin would have somewhere to focus all of his annoying prattle.

"Mother," she said, entering the parlor to join the company. "I'll only be stepping out for a moment."

"Yes, of course, dear," Mrs. Hudson replied absentmindedly, much more absorbed in Anderson's stories. "Your absence shall be felt deeply."

Molly smiled to herself as she ascended the steps to her room. If it were anybody else, she might feel guilty, but Sally really _had_ liked Philip, so where was the harm?

She picked up her pen and began to write. **Dearest Sally...**

**ooooo**

Molly's entire afternoon was spent listening to Anderson's nonstop lectures about his glorious benefactor.

"You know, she's the reason behind my entire career! My forensics schooling, the job I have with Lestrade over in London - it's all because she's found favor with me," he said smugly. "She's truly a remarkable woman; intelligent, highly fashionable, incredibly well-bred. You won't find a more educated woman in all of London, that's what I say!"

_Dear God,_ Molly thought. _If Sally doesn't ring that doorbell within the next twenty minutes I shall go absolutely mad._

"She sounds very accomplished," remarked Mrs. Hudson. "What is her name, Philip? Might we happen to know her in any way?"

"Not unless you've met that psychopath, Sherlock Holmes," Anderson said in disgust. Molly chose this moment to actually start listening to her cousin; this was the most interesting thing he'd said all evening.

"We've met him," Mary said. "Though I'd hardly call him a psychopath!"

"Oh, he's a psychopath alright," Anderson's expression darkened. "And infuriating to no end."

"Well, _that_ much has already been established," Molly said. "Now, how might your benefactor be connected to him?"

"Oh, yes!" Anderson said. "Excuse my lapse in thought. You see, my benefactor is none other than Lady Amelia Holmes herself!"

"Do you mean their _mother_?" Molly asked, astonished. In all her time at Scotland Yard, she'd heard not a thing about any Holmes parents, benefactors or otherwise.

"I do," Anderson continued. "And she is quite possibly the exact opposite of her son. Attractive, by all means of the word. Well-spoken, impeccable taste, remarkable -"

He was interrupted by the friendly ringing of the doorbell.

"Oh, do excuse me, everyone, I'll get it!" Molly cried, rushing to the entryway. She flung open the door to see Sally, and gave her a quick hug.

"Sally, so very glad you could make it! Dinner will be soon; in the meantime, would you mind helping us along with conversation?"

"Not at all," Sally said. "I can hardly refuse such a desperate invitation. Is he really _that_ bad?"

"He's _worse_," Molly groaned. "If you can get him to stop complimenting Lady Amelia Holmes for more than ten minutes, I shall consider you an absolute _saint_!"

Sally rolled her eyes. "Always so dramatic - fine, show me to the parlor."

Molly grinned, marching back into the room with Sally in tow. "Philip, surely you remember Sally Donovan? She's come to have dinner with us!"

"Oh, hello, Sally!" Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully. "It's so very nice to see you again."

"And you as well, Mrs. Hudson," Sally said, taking a seat next to Molly.

"Hi, Sally!" The other girls greeted their friend.

"Ah, yes, Miss Donovan! How could I forget?" Anderson began. "It was lovely to meet you, and here we are again!"

"Yes, hello again, Mr. Anderson," Sally answered politely.

"Oh, no, Philip, I insist!" He grinned.

"Very well, Philip it is."

With Sally, the conversation passed much more quickly; Molly found she was even able to participate without being bored to death. Not an hour later, the table was set for dinner, and the group drifted to their seats. Molly was rather pleased to see Anderson seated between Sally and her mother - the only two people, in fact, who could stand him for any length of time.

"You mentioned business in London, Philip," Mary began. "What exactly was occupying your time in the big city?"

"A rather exciting case with Detective Inspector Lestrade," Anderson replied proudly. "You see, a woman called in about a body in her -"

"Cadavers! How repulsive," Irene blurted out. Mary gave her a reproachful look, and she muttered a quick apology.

"Yes, well, it is unfortunate that as a forensics expert I have grown accustomed to such things," Anderson apologized. "As it has obviously made me insensitive to the capacities of others. So sorry, Miss Hudson."

"Never mind that. What do you enjoy most about forensics?" Sally asked.

_Thank Heaven for Sally Donovan, _Molly thought. _She's saved the day once again._

"Personally, I'm fond of the details," Anderson said, clearly enjoying the attention. "The way an entire case can be made or disproved based off of the tiniest things. And being a part of the forensics team means I'm the one who has to collect and process the evidence, so in essence _my_ team controls the investigation!"

"I see," Sally said thoughtfully, acting wholly interested. "And you never find that boring? I mean, I've seen evidence consisting of just a piece of string or a button - that never gets stale?"

"Never!" Anderson looked shocked. "The simplest pieces are best - _they're_ the ones with the best stories."

"Stories? What do you mean?" Irene asked curiously.

"Evidence is like the pieces to a puzzle," Anderson went on, and Molly cursed her sister for making him elaborate. "Each has its own connection to the case, and it's the forensics team's job to help figure out where the pieces fit. Sometimes, it's the smallest and most unlikely bit that holds the largest truth."

She glanced over at Sally, who appeared to be terribly ensnared by Anderson's poetic nonsense. But as Molly continued to watch the conversation progress, a thought in the back of her mind suggested that Sally's laughs might be _real_, and that her questions might be _honest_.

What on Earth had she gotten herself into?

**ooooo**

It was in the drawing room after dinner that John Watson found himself in a most awkward position. The party had split into two, owing in part to the rather magnificent display at the dinner table that had taken place only a few hours before.

On one side of the room sat Sherlock and Janine, deeply engrossed in another deduction session. Mycroft and Anthea held the sofa over by the fireplace, mainly discussing politics but with an extra effort from Mycroft to try and make Anthea laugh now and then.

As host, John now needed to decide how to keep himself involved in both sides of the room, even though the couples seemed rather occupied on their own. He tried valiantly to save the discussion, floating from one pair to the other while Lestrade watched from an armchair with his scotch. Eventually, though, it proved too difficult, and the doctor gave up in favor of joining Greg with his own scotch and starting his own conversation.

"Finally accepting our fate, are we?" Lestrade laughed.

John sighed. "Those two are utterly childish - they'll both stop at nothing to have the last word. 'Mummy loves _me_ best' seems to be their argument of choice."

"Unfortunately, it always has been," Lestrade shook his head. "I expect this type of thing from Sherlock, but for Mycroft to get in on it, too?"

"He's complicated, that one - goes from saving the world to enlisting himself in the most ridiculous feud I've ever seen in ten seconds flat."

"They're the Holmes brothers; that's to be expected," Lestrade said, swirling his drink around in his glass. "But for future reference, if you threaten to call their mother, they usually shut up fairly quickly."

John laughed. "Imagine that! The world's only consulting detective and the British government, brought to their knees by their mother."

"Well, if _I_ had Lady Amelia Holmes after me, _I'd_ shut up, too," Lestrade shivered. The doctor was intrigued and was about to inquire further when he realized the two brothers were at it again. Apparently, while he and the Detective Inspector had been chatting so amiably, the boys had riled themselves up and unless somebody intervened quite soon, the scene threatened to turn into World War III.

"Don't be so obtuse, Mycroft, I thought you were supposed to be the smart one," Sherlock snapped.

"I _am_ the smart one," Mycroft sneered menacingly.

"You're no smarter than those _goldfish_ you insist you live with." the detective returned. "Speaking of which, if you haven't noticed, _you're still lonely,_ brother mine."

At that, Mycroft's usually collected composure broke, and he glared murderously at Sherlock. "I am _not_ lonely," he said slowly, and even Sherlock appeared startled by the venom in his tone.

"That's it, I've had enough!" John stormed over and planted himself firmly between the two. "You," he said, pointing to Sherlock. "Find somewhere else to be and find something else to do. Solve your cold cases, visit your bloody mind palace, I don't care, but get yourself out of this room this instant." The detective opened his mouth as if to object, but the doctor was in full Captain Watson mode and shot him such a death glare that he stomped off without making a fuss. "And you," he said, turning to Mycroft. "Outside, please. It isn't anything personal, I know you're much more mature than that; but I don't want your brother finding another excuse to upset everyone, so if you wouldn't mind, there's the door." The diplomat left the room sullenly, but without a word. "Finally, you two," John sighed, turning to his wide-eyed sisters. "Please, give them both a chance to cool off before you go running after them. One hour should be enough, but if they snap at you, then leave them alone. And yes, that always happens when they're together." They both hurried upstairs, and though John knew it probably wasn't worth telling them to give the boys some space, he felt better knowing he tried. He threw himself down in his armchair with a heavy, exhausted sigh.

"I was wrong," Lestrade said quietly. "Next time I need them under control, I'm threatening to call _you_."

**ooooo**

Much to everyone's surprise (including their own), Janine and Anthea stayed put in the latter's bedroom until the designated hour passed, discussing the chaotic events of the evening thus far.

"To have such a rivalry - can you imagine? Thank goodness that's not us," Janine said.

"I agree. But I suppose it's in their nature, what with a politician in the family and all. The government does so love to argue..." Anthea trailed off.

"Not with you, I hope?" Janine sternly examined her sister, who shook her head.

"No, no, not at all. Just in general, you know."

"Hm." Janine still looked suspicious, but she dropped the subject. "At any rate, are you going after him?"

Anthea looked appalled. "Of course! I should feel absolutely horrid if I didn't - and despite what John says, I'm sure he could use the company."

"I don't know, Thea," Janine said cautiously. "Remember what Sherlock said, about his being lonely? Maybe he likes it better that way."

"Don't be ridiculous," Anthea scoffed, checking the clock. It seemed the hour was finally up. "He isn't lonely; he has me, whether he likes it or not." And with that, she swept out of the room and down the stairs.

**ooooo**

_Hi again, dear readers! Thank you all so, so, so much for your incredibly kind reviews - I love hearing from you all!_

_In response to previous reviews:_

_Silencebeyondthestars: Thank you so very much! I'm glad you're enjoying the story!_

_fastreader12: Thank you! And, I suppose, you're welcome, though the pleasure is all mine._

_coolaquariun: How sweet of you to say - and I think those are my favorite parts to write, right in that order!_

_Black Night: Thank you so much! Thank goodness the humor caught on - I was hoping it would!_

_Headlines for next chapter include the following:_

_-Sally and Anderson being, well, Sally and Anderson_

_-The makings of a possible social catastrophe_

_-And finally, dangerously adorable Mythea fluff. You have been warned._

_~London Belle_


	13. Chapter 12

Sherlock retreated to his room, in desperate need of his violin. He flipped open the case and snatched the instrument out of the velvet lining angrily, as if the wood itself had done something to offend him, before flinging open the large French doors that led to his balcony. He set up his music stand and threw a stack of blank paper on it, should he feel like composing, then sought out his bow. _A waltz,_ he decided, lifting the violin to his shoulder. Simple, easy to play, and he could let his thoughts straighten themselves out without offending anyone who happened to be within listening range. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and soon the faint strains of Tchaikovsky's String Serenade in C, Op.48 began to drift out over the garden.

**ooooo**

The gardens of Scotland Yard were neither remarkable nor plain, possessing some sort of halfway point between the two. John preferred the term 'elegant', however, Mycroft himself would say 'average'. But as the diplomat wandered the spacious walks for some undetermined length of time, he began to revoke his original opinion in favor of a much kinder one. The well-kept maze of garden paths was the perfect way to occupy oneself with one's own thoughts, and Mycroft found he was almost enjoying the quiet solitude.

Anthea made her way to one of the side entrances of the garden; this path ran straight by her room and was always her favorite. She hesitated before going inside - should she really bother Mycroft? Maybe Janine was right; maybe he really _did_ prefer to be alone. After some deliberation, she resolved to spare herself the guilt by simply walking her favorite route through the garden. If she happened to meet Mycroft on the way, then so be it. If not, then she would wait until tomorrow. _There. Plain, simple, and sensible, the way plans ought to be, _she thought with a smile. She then set off, passing the roses and tulips with a determined gait.

Mycroft checked his watch. _One hour and twenty minutes._ How long was John going to keep him out here? He knew his little brother's temper sometimes got the better of him, but really, it was beginning to grow chilly outside, and the sun was going to set soon. Though he was the mature one, Mycroft had absolutely no intentions of spending the night in a dark garden by himself, however 'elegant' it may be. He decided he would take matters into his own hands by returning to the estate anyway, with or without John's approval. Rounding a corner, he noticed a path with a small sign indicating it led to an exit, and he promptly changed his course. Checking the sky every so often to be sure it wasn't yet night, Mycroft started towards the manor.

Anthea was halfway along her route when she thought she heard someone calling her name from the direction of the house. She turned her head to look without slowing and abruptly collided with a figure hurrying down the path in the opposite direction.

"I'm so sorry," she apologized, brushing herself off. It was probably a gardener, she knew, as this was around the time they filed their tools in the shed and left the estate for the day.

"Anthea?" She heard a familiar voice ask in response. _That's no gardener, that's -_

"Mycroft!" She laughed. "Oh, dear, I'm a mess, where _are_ my manners - you simply must forgive me for crashing into you."

"You've nothing to worry about, madam, 'twas entirely my own fault," Mycroft replied stoically. _'Twas? Have you turned Shakespearean?_ he thought, immediately regretting his words.

"Nobody said you had to be a perfect gentleman _all_ the time, you know," Anthea said with _that_ smile of hers, and as usual his thought processes faltered for a solid ten seconds.

"I... I suppose I've said so myself," Mycroft managed. _Idiot. You do realize __that__ is what you're coming across as right now, don't you? A bloody idiot._

Anthea laughed again, and he flushed slightly in embarrassment. _Divert the conversation, Mycroft, come on..._

Fortunately, he didn't have to, as Sherlock chose that moment to begin to play.

"That's rather pretty," Anthea remarked, turning towards the house. "Is that your brother?"

"I'm afraid so," Mycroft frowned. He knew Sherlock's waltz wouldn't last long, and before they knew it they'd be covering their ears in pain.

"Afraid? Why?" She asked curiously.

Mycroft sighed. "My brother has a tendency to... shall we say... _attack_ his violin more than he _plays_ it."

Anthea smiled. _Damn it - pull yourself together this time!_ "Well then, we had better enjoy it while it lasts," she said, holding a hand out. "Care to dance, Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft blinked, then grinned. "It would be my pleasure, Miss Watson."

It was quickly clear to Anthea the extent of her partner's dancing skill: he dipped, twirled, and led with impeccable grace. (_Thank goodness I let John teach me how to waltz all those years ago, _she thought, _else I never would have been able to keep up._) And as they whirled around the garden, of one thing she became sure: No matter what Sherlock, Janine, or anybody else said, Mycroft was most definitely _not_ lonely, and she was going to try her best to keep things that way.

**ooooo**

John trudged slowly down the stairs the next morning, dreading the speech he would have to make at breakfast. Lestrade would defend him, he knew, but was the Detective Inspector any protection against an angry Sherlock? Add the possibility of an annoyed Mycroft, and the doctor became even more nervous, quickly sliding into his seat without so much as a glance in anybody's direction.

The meal passed calmly, and finally he could put it off no longer. He sighed aloud, standing and clearing his throat so as to get everyone's attention.

"Good morning," he began, and Anthea noticed how stiff her brother sounded. _Bad news,_ she thought with a grimace. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at her from across the table, but kept quiet.

"A short while ago, we had the pleasure of hosting two of the lovely Hudson sisters here at Scotland Yard. Molly and Mary have become very dear friends to us in that small amount of time, and their mother and sister Irene are certainly no exception. Since they are such a wonderful company, and to reacquaint ourselves with our new, well, _acquaintances_..." Here, John paused and tried to gauge the response of the crowd thus far. Both Holmes brothers appeared utterly bored, and Janine and Anthea were listening politely while trying to chastise them quietly for their insensitive behavior. As the scene was fairly typical, John continued. "I've decided to hold a private ball for us all, to be held in three days' time. All the arrangements have been made, and I sincerely hope we shall all be able to attend. Er, that is all; thank you," he finished awkwardly, and sat down again.

Though he was almost afraid to look, John glanced around the table. Janine was excitedly discussing her dress with Thea, who was also excited but decidedly calmer about it, as usual. Lestrade looked pleased, no doubt happy to be given the chance to meet the women he'd heard so much about. The doctor braced himself, then turned to Mycroft and Sherlock. To his surprise, they both seemed quite at ease, the former with some sort of _grin_ on his face while the latter templed his hands under his chin in deep thought. Glad that the reveal went better than expected, John relaxed and proceeded to answer the DI, who was now asking him whether he ought to wear his grey suit or his black one.

**ooooo**

Molly headed down to breakfast the next morning utterly and thoroughly confused. Philip Anderson was the most pompous, annoying, _awkward_ individual she'd ever had the misfortune to meet, and yet Sally seemed quite taken with him. Sensible, accomplished, well-spoken Sally Donovan. Had the world gone completely _mad_?

"Hello, Molly!" Sally said brightly, ending Molly's musing abruptly and gesturing to the empty seat next to her. "Philip was just telling me about one of his cases."

"Ah, yes, the 'Study in Pink', as we refer to it. Terribly exciting stuff; the victim had scratched the letters R-A-C-H-E into the floor with her fingernails moments before she died. Everyone thought she had written the German word for revenge, _rache_; however, _I_ was the one to correctly deduce that it was indeed _not_ German, but the unfinished name of her daughter, Rachel."

"Oh, that's so very clever of you! How were you able to tell?" Sally asked.

Anderson flushed slightly, now out of his element. Sure, he'd seen Sherlock do his... _thing_, but he had no idea where this particular piece of knowledge came from, not being allowed into the crime scene and all.

"Ah..." he began, and though Molly realized he hadn't a clue as to what he was talking about, Sally waited patiently for an answer. "Well, first of all, she didn't even appear to be remotely German. No family background, no obvious physical traits, nothing."

Thankfully, at that moment Irene rushed in the room with a letter, her energy demanding the attention of the entire party.

"Look, everyone! Look what's come in the post today!" She beamed, holding the envelope up for all to see.

"Oh, Irene, do read it aloud," Mrs. Hudson called from the other end of the table. "My eyes aren't as sharp as they used to be, dear."

Irene huffed impatiently, removing the letter from inside. "If I must." She cleared her throat and stood up straighter. "Doctor John Hamish Watson cordially invites us and any guests of our choosing to another ball at Scotland Yard, to be held three days from now." She became more excited, adding enthusiasm to the words as she read them. "It's to be private, just us, and he's sending us his own carriages as transport!"

"Well isn't that simply _divine_!" Mrs. Hudson laughed. "Fancy that, _my_ girls at a _private_ ball fit to bursting with eligible bachelors - oh, and of course, you must come, Philip, and Sally as well!"

"Oh, I couldn't possibly -" Sally tried to object; after all, balls weren't really her idea of a nice day out, but Mrs. Hudson wouldn't hear it.

"Nonsense! The man said bring guests, and bring guests we shall!"

Sally looked embarrassed, but held her tongue. "That's very kind of you, thank you."

Molly sighed. Not only would she have to defend herself against both Sherlock _and_ Mycroft for an entire evening, but she would have to do it with her mother and Irene there as well, not to mention Philip! She supposed it might be worth it, though, to see Mary happy - her sister was clearly anticipating seeing John again.

"You'll have to help me choose a dress," Sally and Mary said simultaneously to Molly, and all three laughed.

"My services are in _such_ demand these days! I'll have to see if I can fit you two in between the Queen and the Prime Minister's daughter," Molly said with a grin.

Definitely worth it.

**ooooo**

_Thank you for all of the lovely feedback, everyone!_

_I apologize for the long wait between updates - thank you also for your patience!_

_I figure it's only fair to offer you all a preview after a wait like that, so in the next chapter:_

_Another visitor comes to Scotland Yard, Sherlock makes a valiant effort to be a gentleman, and Lestrade proves himself to be quite useful..._

_In response to previous reviews:_

_fastreader12: Thanks! (I think he lowers the IQ of the entire chapter...)_

_Black Night: Thank you! That's got to be my favorite, too - I'd pick an angry Mummy Holmes over an angry John Watson any day!_

_Until next chapter,_

_~London Belle_


	14. Chapter 13

"It's very nice, but I'm not sure green is your color. What do you think, Sally?" Molly asked. The two were seated in Mary's bedroom while the eldest Hudson tried on dresses for the impending ball.

"Agreed. I do love that hairpin, though - wherever did you find it?" Sally pointed to the elegant string of jewels tucked into the back of Mary's hair.

"Oh, this? I've had it forever; I think it might have been an old Christmas gift from Mother," Mary said with a wave of her hand. "On to the next one, then?"

"Just a minute," Molly said curiously. "That's much too expensive to be a gift from Mother - and besides, we all know her taste. I can't seem to remember you wearing it before, either..."

"Forgive my mistake," Mary rushed to reply, flushing slightly. "As I've said, it's quite old; my memory must have slipped."

Molly sighed. "Come on, out with it. You really are a terrible liar, Mary; and besides, it's only a hairpin!"

Sally giggled. "I don't wish to be mean, but she's right, you know."

"Fine," Mary relented. "I'll tell you, but I don't see why you're both so interested; it isn't anything important. It's from John; he sent it to me yesterday," she said shyly, grinning despite herself.

"_John?_ First he fusses over you like you're the Queen of England, and now he's sending you _jewelry_?" Molly laughed. "Mary, I think you've found yourself a regular Romeo!"

"And I'd say you make a perfect Juliet," Sally added.

"Oh, don't fuss, please," Mary begged, now blushing full-force. "We don't have time for fussing! Let me go try on the next one; after all, we still have both of you to do, and who _knows_ how long _that's_ going to take!"

"If you insist," Molly said as her sister disappeared into her closet again. "I give it a month before they're married," she whispered to Sally, who giggled.

"A month? I think we'll be lucky if they last a week!" She replied, sitting up straight again as Mary emerged in the next dress.

"Very pretty beadwork," Molly said as her sister twirled around. "But a train _that_ long might impede your dancing ability, don't you think?"

Mary laughed. "I suppose so, though I'm sure I won't be doing all that much dancing," she said, adjusting her hairpin as she slipped back into the closet to try on yet another dress, humming while she went.

"I bet he's gone and bought the ring already," Molly sighed.

"How many carats, do you suppose? Five? Ten? _Fifteen_?" Sally laughed.

Molly paused before answering. "Given the size of that pin and his quite obvious infatuation, I'd say there's no possible way he's gotten anything under twenty."

At least, she hoped so.

**ooooo**

"Pompous arse," Sherlock spat. "John, tell my darling brother I've no wish to speak to him."

"Sherlock, I don't care _how_ much you hate him; I will _not_ be your goddamn _ambassador_," John hissed.

"If you would be so kind as to find your maturity, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed. "You seem to have misplaced it, along with your manners."

"You prick! You absolute, _utter_ -"

"Okay! That's _enough_, you three!" Lestrade interrupted Sherlock before the detective could finish, trying his best to sound somewhat threatening. Unfortunately, Mycroft was much better at that sort of thing, and the warning came out lightly, almost like a mother scolding her children in public.

"_Three_?" John scoffed indignantly. "Greg, surely you don't mean -"

"Sorry, John, but you're just as bad as they are, sometimes," Lestrade shrugged. "I mean, an _ambassador_? I haven't heard _that_ since I was twelve!"

John stayed quiet after that, joining Sherlock in a proper sulk. Mycroft simply closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, and Lestrade took advantage of the quiet moment to try and distract the three. "Now, can we please get back to suits, everyone? We've already been here for an hour, and we've accomplished next to nothing, besides determining that grey suits upset Mummy more than anything else in the world."

"As much as I consider myself a mature individual," Mycroft began, but Lestrade interrupted yet again.

"Sherlock, go and sit in the parlor until your brother is finished."

"What for?" The detective asked petulantly.

"Because Mycroft doesn't appreciate being called fat, and for good reason. So, since I know you won't be able to sit here silently, go find a chair in the parlor until he's done. Won't take more than fifteen minutes, and I'm not arguing with you," he finished with a glare. The DI's murderous scowl sent Sherlock stomping into the parlor without any further debate, and John looked at his friend with an impressed expression. "Go ahead, Mycroft. We'll sit here," Lestrade sighed, taking a seat on the library sofa next to John while the diplomat ducked behind the makeshift divider to change.

"Well done," John said. "And you said you couldn't handle him."

"Not when I have Anderson to worry about, too," Lestrade laughed. "But by himself? _That_ I can manage. Where's the umbrella?" He added as Mycroft emerged from the 'dressing room'. "I can't decide until I see it with the umbrella!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but picked up his umbrella from the corner of the room and leaned on it. "And now?" He asked, sounding quite bored, though the two on the sofa knew better.

"Better," Lestrade nodded.

"Mycroft, I do hope you have a 42 over there - that extra slice of cake has cost you your size 40," Sherlock called from across the hallway. "You've put on at _least_ five pounds since I saw you last, brother mine."

"Nobody asked you!" John shouted back. "Ignore him," he said to Mycroft, who grinned threateningly.

"No, John, my brother is completely right," he said, amused. "It seems I _have_ put on a little extra weight - just as _someone_ seems to have skipped one too many breakfasts," he added, addressing the detective in the next room. "I'm the smart one, Sherlock, I can tell when you're thinning up a bit."

"Just _go change,_" Lestrade hissed, dragging a hand over his face. "_Now_."

Mycroft began to object but stopped himself mid-sentence, instead obediently hiding behind the divider.

"Sherlock, if you promise to behave, we'll let you back in," John said loudly.

After a minute, the detective reentered the room, a smug smirk stretched across his features.

"It was mere deduction, John, that's all. No need to yell," he said, throwing himself into an armchair.

"I don't care if it was bloody surgery; you've still got to control that temper. There will be none of that at the event, you understand, so better practice now." John's tone was firm.

"Well, there won't _be_ an event unless you pick a suit," Lestrade cut in cheerfully. "Go on, Sherlock, it's your turn."

"A group of people who all know each other on some level or another are about to stand around in a room and talk while music plays; what about that requires a new suit?" Sherlock asked in a bored monotone.

"Your brother did it," John pointed out as Mycroft took a seat in the armchair opposite.

"My brother does lots of things," Sherlock replied coolly. "Most of which are either illegal, annoying, or both."

John sighed. "Please, Sherlock. For me?"

Both Mycroft and Lestrade watched with a grin as Sherlock rolled his eyes, then got up and slipped behind the divider as asked. Unfortunately for them, the two did not hide their expressions from John.

"What?" The doctor asked suspiciously.

"Oh, nothing," Mycroft said lightly, still grinning.

"Better watch out, John. Looks like Mary's got some fierce competition," Lestrade said, laughing.

John turned bright red, spluttering nonsense as Sherlock emerged from behind the screen.

"Do keep your nonsense to yourselves," the younger Holmes said smoothly. "Especially you, Mycroft. Can't have you frightening John, not when there's a ball to be planned."

"Not denying it, I see," Lestrade said gleefully.

"Absolutely _not_ - I don't even... _No_," John stammered, still flushed. "Gits, both of you."

"What? You mean _Sherlock_ isn't a git, for once?" Lestrade teased.

"That's it, I've had _enough_!" John stood up from his seat quickly. "Find your own damn suit!"

And with that, the doctor stalked out of the room, leaving behind a smug Sherlock, a sly Mycroft, and Lestrade, who was currently laughing quite heartily at the entire situation.

**ooooo**

"Too plain."

"Too frilly."

"Too prim."

"Prim?" Anthea frowned. "And what is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Boring," Janine shrugged. "It's nice, but it isn't _the_ dress, Thea."

Anthea crossed her arms over her chest. "You are impossible! We're already halfway through my closet; I don't have as many dresses as you, you know."

"I know," Janine sighed. "But trust me, I'll know the right one when I see it. It has to be perfect, Thea!"

Anthea rolled her eyes. "Fine." She disappeared into her closet again, reemerging in a pale blue gown tied at the waist with an extremely large bow, which sat just above the small of her back and altogether looked very silly.

Janine laughed. "Where did you get _that_?"

"Janine, be nice! It was a Christmas present from John!" Anthea gasped, pretending to be offended.

"I see. Though I do love our brother to London and back, he has a rather... _interesting_ taste in dresses, wouldn't you say?"

"It comes with a matching hair bow," Anthea laughed, slipping back into the wardrobe. A few minutes later, she stepped out again, this time wearing a pale pink dress with tulle roses sewn into the skirt.

Janine examined her sister thoroughly, requesting a twirl so she could see the entire ensemble. After a good five minutes' deliberation, she smiled. "That's the one, Thea. It's simply _stunning_!"

Anthea laughed. "_Finally_!"

"Of course, we'll have to put your hair up," Janine began, muttering to herself. "But how to do it... Can I see your jewelry box?" She asked abruptly.

Anthea sighed.

It was going to be a very long afternoon.

**ooooo**

_This chapter ended up being a bit longer than I expected, so the ball will have to start next chapter - I apologize for the suspense!_

_In response to previous reviews:_

_OpalSkyLoveDivine: Thank you! I hadn't initially pictured such a 'ship-happy' piece, but what can one do? There's only so much drama one can avoid when dealing with the likes of the Bennet sisters!_

_Black Night: Thanks!_

_Pipsis: Thank you so much! I love them, too, and am also trying to use those characters and personalities as models._

_Until next chapter!_

_~London Belle_


	15. Chapter 14

"Girls! The carriages are here!" Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs. She flung open the front doors as the girls rushed down the stairs, one by one.

"Oh, no! We aren't late, are we?" Mary fretted.

"We aren't," Molly assured her. "They've only just pulled up to the drive."

"_Two_ carriages?" Irene gasped. "Why, we're getting the royal treatment!"

"That's rather kind of Doctor Watson, don't you think?" Sally smiled.

"Did you say _two_ carriages?" Mary asked as the group began spilling onto the walkway. "Oh, he didn't have to send _two_!"

"Well, he did, so there's no use worrying about it now," Irene reasoned. "Calm down, Mary, else you won't have any fun!"

The last two to leave the house were Anderson and Mrs. Hudson, and Anderson politely took the elderly woman's arm to escort her down the drive.

"Thank you, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, smiling at him.

"My pleasure," Anderson replied. In truth, he'd much rather be walking with Sally, but manners were manners, and so he stayed with his partner and helped her into one of the cabs. Sliding in next to her, Anderson looked up, and to his surprise found Sally sitting across from him. Whilst Mrs. Hudson had been locking the door behind her, Sally had volunteered to travel in the second carriage, leaving the three sisters to their own devices. He smiled at her as the coach pulled away from the curb in the direction of Scotland Yard.

"Miss Donovan," he began, steeling his nerves. "It may be a little early to ask, but might you consider -"

"Oh, dear, it's _never_ too early!" Mrs. Hudson interrupted, patting his hand. "You know, my husband asked me when I was seventeen, and what a lovely time we had! That was, until I found out about the drugs and such, but never you mind about that!" She smiled encouragingly, as both Sally and Anderson gave her blank stares. "Well, don't just sit there. Go on!" She prompted.

"Ah, yes, er..." Anderson shifted his attention back to the matter at hand. "Might you consider joining me -"

"_There_ it is!" Mrs. Hudson sighed happily. "Now, have you set a date yet? Oh, silly me, of course you've got to give her the ring first. Don't let me stop you; come now, let's see it!" She beamed, and Anderson flushed as he realized what the older woman was thinking of.

"No, no, I'm not _proposing_," Anderson stammered as Sally covered her mouth with one hand, trying very hard not to laugh. "I... I was merely asking if Miss Donovan might have me for the first dance!"

"Well, that's lovely, too," Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Say 'yes', dearie; this one's a keeper," she said to Sally, who dropped her hand but couldn't resist smiling.

"Yes," she said. "I would love to."

"Isn't that adorable," Mrs. Hudson cooed. "You two make _such_ the perfect couple! Oh, and it seems we've arrived," she added, allowing Anderson to help her out of the carriage. He then held out his hand for Sally, leaving Mrs. Hudson to catch up to her girls.

"Are you quite sure you don't have a ring? I think you may have disappointed her," Sally laughed.

Anderson was silent, still flushing a pale pink.

"Come _on_, you two!" Irene laughed, tugging on Sally's arm as she came up beside the pair. "You can chat once you're inside!"

"Alright, alright, we're coming!" Sally said in exasperation, tucking her arm into Anderson's as they started towards the open front doors. "Wouldn't want to miss the first dance," she added, and he grinned the grin he usually reserved for the very few times he's ever had the last word in a conversation with the world's only consulting detective.

**ooooo**

Scotland Yard's ballroom seemed strangely different from the last time Molly had seen it, though she had no idea why. After thoroughly scanning the room, she eventually concluded that the chandelier had been changed, or cleaned, or something else of that nature. However, it was not until after she had said her hellos to John, Anthea, Janine, _and_ Mycroft that she realized specifically what had felt out of place: Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

Not that he had any particular _reason_ to be there in the first place, but she felt it was worthy to note that the infuriating consulting detective was, in fact, decidedly absent.

This would be the point where it would be lovely if somebody might be able to tell her why she felt all funny about that. It was a strange thing, indeed; butterflies flipped around in her stomach, she began to feel slightly self-conscious, she quickly developed a nervous habit of tucking her hair behind her ears, and the worst part was that she still couldn't figure out _why_.

She wished her life could be more simple, like Mary's. Mary was already having a fantastic time, as was Sally, now that she stopped to look. They were dancing away, meeting people and laughing and sipping champagne while Molly sat by herself and pretended to be occupied with the floor. She chose to categorize herself as lonely that exact moment, and yet she refused to believe that any of this had to do with a certain consulting detective. How frustrating.

"Hello." A gruff voice jolted her out of her thoughts, and she looked up to the sight of a grey-haired man a few years older than herself sitting down next to her. "You're one of the Hudson girls, right? Molly?"

"I suppose that's me," Molly replied, and it sounded a bit more pitiful than she had intended it to.

The man cracked a smile. "Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, at your service. Though, between you and me, the title is only good for scaring murder suspects and the Holmes boys. It's really just Greg," he added.

"And what's a scary Detective Inspector doing with the Holmes boys?" Molly asked curiously.

"Sherlock helps me with my cold cases," Lestrade answered. "And sometimes, when he's in London, I let him come to the real crime scenes, murders and robberies and all that." He paused. "Mycroft only helps me when he wants to, and even then it's just to get his little brother out of trouble. Pains in the arse, both of them."

"I know what you mean," Molly smiled. "You must know John, then, too?"

"We're friends," the DI grinned. "We'd have to be, seeing as we're two of the only people on this Earth who will tolerate those gits for any length of time."

Molly couldn't help herself; she laughed. "Where is he, anyway?" She inquired. "Sherlock, I mean." She detested the tiny pebble of hope that suddenly lodged itself in her breastbone. _No. Shoo, go away._

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "He'll be here. John ensured his attendance by promising him a few blood samples and the other half of my cold case collection. Naturally, that got the man more excited than the entire ball did, so he should be down shortly," he said nonchalantly. What did this girl want with Sherlock? She seemed normal enough, and she didn't appear to be any kind of brilliant genius (and he meant that in the kindest way possible, he really did), so why would she care?

"Oh. Let me know if you see him, will you?" Molly asked pleasantly.

"Right," Lestrade replied warily. "Well, if there's anything else you need, I'll be around." He stood and gave her a quick wink before being pulled into a conversation between Janine and Irene; something to do with a recent murder in London.

Molly sighed. So, all she had to do was wait a little. The pebble told her she could handle a few minutes more in the chair, and so she stayed put, observing her sister and John. They were dancing, each occasionally craning their necks to say hello to the couple next to them, but mainly engaging in what Molly thought to be the most adorable conversation she'd ever seen.

If John didn't hurry up and get that ring, she might just do it _for_ him.

**ooooo**

John Watson despises being interrupted. He _especially_ despises being interrupted when in a conversation, never mind a conversation with a _pretty, intelligent, _and altogether _fascinating_ woman. He loathes _that_ more than anything else in the whole godamned world. But when somebody who was clearly not invited turned up on the front porch asking to see the doctor, how could John say no? After all, he was the host, and _somebody_ had to step it up around here.

What he was not prepared for, and what he doubt he could have been prepared for had someone told him it was coming a year in advance, was James Moriarty.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi!" He grinned.

John smiled back, though it was by no means genuine. "Yes, Jim, hello," he said as Moriarty invited himself in. "Looking for Sherlock, I presume?"

"Oh, no, not today," Moriarty sang. "Just wanted to drop by; see what you all were up to." He ambled over to the ballroom and peeked inside. "My, you've been busy. Having a little party, are we, Doctor?"

John held his temper, albeit reluctantly. "Scotland Yard is hosting a ball for the neighbors," he said stiffly.

"Some very pretty neighbors," Moriarty added, and John shot the man such a death glare that he laughed. "None as pretty as those sisters of yours, though."

"You _stay away from them,_" John menaced, teeth clenched.

"Relax," Moriarty drawled. "I'm not interested in _them_."

"Then why are you here?"

"If you'll excuse me, John, I have people to see, things to do," Moriarty grimaced. "And you're boring me." He disappeared into the ballroom before John could reply.

Dear God, Sherlock was going to have a proper _fit_.

**ooooo**

Sherlock stalked into the ballroom, eager to find John. He had no intentions of staying any longer than was absolutely necessary, and as such was determined to prowl the edges of the room until the doctor became available.

That was, until he saw Molly.

To be completely honest, Sherlock had forgotten she was attending. He had been experimenting for most of the morning, and so had deleted most information pertaining to the ball in order to make room for the decay rate of various human fluids when subjected to acid, but he now remembered John showing him the guest list and his surprise at seeing the words _Molly Hudson_ printed on it in black ink.

She looked extraordinarily pretty, even prettier than the last time he'd seen her. Sherlock wanted to ask her to dance, but she was so obviously opposed to him, and he didn't want to upset her. No, it was most definitely safer to stay over here in the corner.

Why was he here again?

Enough nonsense. He was going to ask her, and that was _final_. He took a deep breath and tried to remember some of the things John had taught him that might help in this situation. _No deductions, _he heard the doctor's voice say sternly in his head. _No sarcasm. Smile, it makes you look less threatening. And for God's sake, would it kill you to try your hand at chivalry?_

He nodded to himself. He could do all of that, if he focused. He _hoped_ he could do all of that, for Molly's sake. Straightening his jacket, he started towards her, running a hand through his hair anxiously.

He had made it halfway across the room when out of nowhere, another man in a tuxedo took the empty seat next to her. Unfortunately, the available chair was on the opposite side of Molly, so that Sherlock could not tell who the man was from his vantage point. Determined to find out who had stolen his opportunity, the detective changed course and followed the far wall of the ballroom. When the man's face came into view, Sherlock froze.

_No_. This was not happening. This was most certainly _not_ happening. There were a lot of unpleasant things that happened in the world, Sherlock knew, but _this_ was by far the absolute most _dreadful_ thing he had ever witnessed in his entire existence. He watched as Molly laughed at the man, who grinned smugly. He watched as she flushed, and tucked her hair behind her ear nervously. A knot formed in his stomach, and when the pair stood to dance, another formed in his throat. He was envious, infuriated, revolted; the list seemed inadequate to describe the detective's reaction.

Sherlock was a drama queen, he knew. He was childish, he knew. But this? _This_ was different.

_This_ was Moriarty.

_This_ was very, _very_ bad.

**ooooo**

"So, you said you're up in London? What do you do?" Molly asked. Jim was fascinating, all manners and charm, and she quickly found herself wondering why she hadn't met him sooner.

"Oh, it's nothing important, really. I'm part of the 'Information Technology' department in Lestrade's division; I assume you've met him already?" Molly nodded. "It's a silly title, really. We call ourselves 'I.T.', for short. Mostly, it's filing and paperwork, though we do get the occasional field work."

"And what's that like?" Molly prompted.

"Stealing cups of coffee from the break room for the secretaries across the way," he answered with a grin, and Molly laughed. She glanced over Jim's shoulder and, with a start, thought she saw a tall figure leaning against the opposite wall. _Sherlock?_

Jim followed her gaze, rolling his eyes when he spotted the detective. "Has he deduced you yet?" He asked, pulling Molly from her object of interest.

"Excuse me?" She asked, confused.

"You know, has he deduced you? Pulled you apart? Dissected your entire life simply by observing you?" Jim asked in a bored monotone.

"I've no idea what you're talking about," Molly replied indignantly.

"Then you haven't seen him do it to anyone else, either?" Now, Jim sounded excited, eyes lighting up at the news.

"Jim, please," Molly sighed.

"Interesting," Jim muttered to himself. Then, he returned his attention to Molly. "You know he's a detective who solves crimes with John and Lestrade, correct?"

"Yes," Molly answered warily.

"Well, being a detective, you have to notice tiny clues sometimes, but Sherlock's brain notices _everything_, no matter how small. He can tell you the profession, shoe size, and breakfast of any man who walks through that door, regardless of whether he's met him before or not."

"I don't believe you."

"Ask him yourself sometime. He's a desperate show-off; he won't say no."

"And just how do you know all this?" Molly asked. "Do you know Sherlock?"

"I suppose you could say we have a 'special something'," Jim smiled. "Though in all honesty, you really should stay away from him."

"Why?"

"He's dangerous," Jim warned her. "He solves those crimes for fun. To Sherlock, it isn't just a job; it's a _lifestyle_. Add that to his deduction habit and the amount of obscure scientific knowledge packed into that brain and you have an extremely bored psychopath with a _lot_ of spare time on his hands. Besides, you've met him; you've seen his manners. Do you really _want_ to spend time with that man?"

Molly was at a loss. She didn't really believe Sherlock was a psychopath (nor did she want to), but Jim seemed so very sure of himself, and she trusted him. She was still considering a reply when a deep baritone sounded behind her.

"Oh, Jim, really? I expected _so_ much better from you."

She whirled around to find Sherlock looming over her, grinning. "I'm afraid he's mislead you, Molly, as I never have been a psychopath. I prefer the term high-functioning sociopath; it's much more threatening." This was added with a stormy glare in Moriarty's direction, though it did little more than make the other man laugh.

"Sherlock, what a surprise to see you here! Lovely party, really, but I must say I'm quite disappointed in you as well. You've known dear Molly for how long, and yet she still has never seen the famous detective in action?"

"Famous?" Molly interjected, with a curious look.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as Moriarty leapt to answer her. "Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes is _quite_ the figure up in London. You and Dr. Watson are becoming rather eminent, what with that newsletter and all."

"It's merely John's case write-ups, nothing more," Sherlock rushed to add.

"Cases, newsletters, it's all the same," Moriarty sang. "Either way, the fact remains that there is still one person in this room who does not know the extent of your genius."

Sherlock grimaced. Should he rattle off deductions and ruin his chances with Molly, or refuse and cause Moriarty to create a scene, thus upsetting John and the entire room? The decision should have been easy, but surprisingly, he found it to be quite difficult. Finally, after a moment of thought, the detective settled on a compromise.

"If you insist," he sighed. "Let's see, who shall we - Yes! He'll do very nicely, indeed."

Moriarty grinned. Sherlock, the Show-Off. Worked every time.

"My darling brother, Mycroft. Well, if we look at his shoes, see the mud splashed up against the heel and the toes? And the creases in his trousers, can you see the fabric behind his knees? That means he's been doing a lot of outside walking, probably trying to get back on the diet again. And if he's been dieting again, he's most likely been cheating a bit as well... Ah! Watch, when he turns around again, the lapels of his jacket and his tie - both have creases from where he's bent over the table, and if you look very, very closely, I think you can probably see the crumbs from his last piece of cake. Am I right?" He turned to Molly hopefully.

She squinted a bit, observing the taller man. "I think I can see it all... But I can't find the crumbs you were talking about; where are they?"

"Well, that last one was a bit of a lie," Sherlock grinned. "I've actually no idea if there's any evidence of cake, but it's quite fun to tease him about it anyway."

Molly laughed. "How very _professional_ of you, Mr. Holmes!"

Moriarty stood to the side and watched the scene, fuming. What on Earth was _that_? _That_ was not 'deducing' _anybody_! It was so _elementary_, so damn simple compared to the brusque, analytical style he was expecting. It was flat-out _boring_, for God's sake! And it certainly wasn't terrifying Molly, which was the entire _point_ of that little exercise. "How insightful," he interrupted, ever-so-slightly sarcastically. "Well, if you don't mind, I believe Molly and I were-"

"Terribly sorry, Jim, but I'm afraid the reason for my interrupting your little chat in the first place was to ask Molly for a dance, if she accepts," Sherlock cut in smoothly.

"That sounds lovely," Molly smiled, offering an arm. "It was very nice to meet you, Jim!" She called over her shoulder as the detective whisked her away.

Had she said something about wanting to be like Mary earlier?

She hadn't meant a word of it.

**ooooo**

_I apologize for such a long chapter - the ball turned out to be much more exciting than I had originally planned! Anyway, the party officially ends here, so I won't have to bore you with any more social nonsense, and we can move right along to the bad news (Yes, bad news). Next chapter brings a bit of sadness to the Hudsons (Calm down, I'm not Moffat, nobody dies) and Moriarty returns!_

_In response to previous reviews:_

_cornishrexmomma: Thank you! That's very kind of you to say._

_The-Scorpio-Holmes-Sister-221B: Hello! It's lovely to hear from you again - trust me, I know a thing or two about being busy! Thank you so very much for the kind words - I do hope Sherlock's latest deductions fit in nicely with the whole 'sibling rivalry' and all._

_Pipsis: Thank you so much! I was worried I was beginning to lean a bit too far in either direction, but apparently that's just me! Always a pleasure to hear from you, as well._

_Until next chapter, dear readers,_

_~London Belle_


	16. Chapter 15

_Author's Note: Against my better judgement (and by popular demand), the ball continues on this chapter! In hindsight, I suppose we might like to check in on our other couples (I would never forget our Mythea!) and wrap up a few loose ends. (And, if I'm to be completely honest with you all... I truly love writing a good ball!)_

_So, without further ado: 221 Bennet Street, Chapter 15!_

**ooooo**

**_"Terribly sorry, Jim, but I'm afraid the reason for my interrupting your little chat in the first place was to ask Molly for a dance, if she accepts," Sherlock cut in smoothly._**

**_"That sounds lovely," Molly smiled, offering an arm. "It was very nice to meet you, Jim!" She called over her shoulder as the detective whisked her away._**

**_Had she said something about wanting to be like Mary earlier?_**

**_She hadn't meant a word of it._**

**ooooo**

What now? He hadn't actually expected her to say 'Yes'. Should he offer conversation? Compliment her? On second thought, he didn't really know _how_ to compliment her ('I am enamored with your grace?' _No, compliments are supposed to be vain. _'Your choice of necklace is exceedingly suited to your sternocleidomastoid?'), so that was entirely out of the question.

What would John do? John danced with women quite frequently; how did he always win their favor? Sherlock tried to examine scenes stored in his mind palace of John dancing, but came up empty-handed. Fine, what would John _tell_ him to do? As usual, Sherlock's inner John-voice offered help just when it was needed. _Be polite_, the doctor said. _Chivalry is very important. Under no circumstances are you allowed to use the words 'boring', 'dull', or 'obvious'. Listen to her, and be nice. You can do this if you try hard enough, Sherlock, I promise._

"Sherlock?" Molly asked, interrupting his thoughts. "Sherlock? Is everything alright?"

"Oh, yes, my apologies. I thought I might have forgotten something, but I was mistaken," Sherlock replied, adding a smile for good measure.

It worked; she smiled in return. "Then you might want to stop walking, before we hit the wall."

While wrapped up in the confines of his own mind, Sherlock had neglected to notice the direction in which he was taking his partner. He quickly turned before the pair bumped into the far wall, a faint blush spreading up his neck._ Damn it._

She laughed. "Oh, don't be embarrassed. We all do silly things -" she paused with a tiny gasp. "Come on, hurry! This is one of my favorites," she said happily, eyes lighting up as the orchestra began a waltz. It happened to be a favorite of Sherlock's as well, but the detective was afraid to express his opinion, and so kept silent. As he placed his arm around Molly's waist, he heard John's voice again. _You can't stay silent forever! Sherlock, you need to talk to her. Go on, tell her you think she looks pretty._

"Are you wearing lipstick?" He asked the question before he even knew what was coming out of his mouth.

_Git!_ John scolded him. _How many times do I have to tell you? No deductions!_

Molly flushed. "I... I refreshed it a bit."

"I see." _You can still save yourself! Tell her it compliments her eyes!_ John pleaded. "It's... nice."

"Oh. Thank you," Molly said hesitantly.

_Why was this so bloody hard? _He complained to inner-John.

_Because you like her, and you want her to like you, _the John-voice answered. _Now, relax, and try one more time. No games, just ask her if she's enjoying the ball._

But there was a larger task on Sherlock's vendetta, a more pressing matter than simple small talk. "So, ah, you've met Moriar- Jim, then," he said, unable to stop the ice with which the three-letter name was mentioned. "What do you make of him?" It was a strange question, he knew, but he desperately needed to see how she would respond. _Please, say he's rude; say he's annoying, repulsive, frightening, anything but-_

"He was very polite, at first," Molly said, and Sherlock's heart sank. "Interesting, charming - he even made me laugh!" He opened his mouth to say something, _anything_, to change her mind, but she held up a finger and continued. "Then, he started trying to scare me, telling me to stay away from you because you were a 'dangerous psychopath'," she scoffed. "And on top of all that, he assumed I wouldn't even want to be in your company anyway because you had terrible manners. Such a childish comment, really."

"'Dangrous psychopath', no," Sherlock grinned. " 'Consulting git', if you ask John, and occasionally 'brother mine', if you ask Mycroft."

" 'Perfect gentleman', if you ask me," Molly added, and he positively _beamed_.

_See? _John's voice said. _I knew you could do it._

**ooooo**

Mycroft had been a little late. Fine, he'd been _very_ late. An hour and fifteen minutes late, if anyone wanted a figure. But to be fair, he'd had an excellent excuse: One does not keep the Chancellor of Austria waiting if one wishes to live very long.

Even so, that letter had taken only an hour; the fifteen minutes were Mycroft's own doing. He had spent the entire quarter of an hour milling about the hallway outside the ballroom, wondering if the fuss that came with entering a party late was worth actually attending. Nobody would care whether he came or not, and despite all of the previous events he'd attended while in government service, he still wasn't terribly fond of people or socializing. He'd fake another call; come down with a sudden fever or cold, or anything, really. It was one of the only traits he had in common with Sherlock - a general distaste for those _other_ humans walking around.

"Mycroft!" A voice called, causing him to look up in mild surprise. He watched as Anthea pushed her way through the masses, smiling brightly at him.

Oh.

He'd forgotten her entirely.

"_There_ you are!" She said, slightly breathless. "John said you'd gotten another call, so I thought I'd come see how you were doing." She smiled. "Who did you have to save this time? The Archduke of Prussia? You know, he and I have luncheon together every third Thursday," she said matter-of-factly.

"Chancellor of Austria, actually," he grinned, quickly composing himself. "Werner sent an urgent letter of concern, one that had to be attended to immediately."

Anthea rolled her eyes. "Only you would be on a first name basis with the Chancellor of Austria. Did you manage to restore balance to the universe?"

"Security leak," he said, sounding bored. "Child's play, really."

Anthea straightened up, speaking in her best authoritative tone. "Well done, MI6, keep up the great work."

"MI6?" Mycroft faked offense. "My dear, those imbeciles spy on people for money. Hardly trustworthy, and only vaguely loyal to the Crown. Do you _really_ think we'd send them to _Austria_?"

"Well, if you don't send them abroad, what do you do with them?"

"Why, we use them to run errands, of course. A little rendezvous here, some bribery there, and they blend right in to the wallpaper."

Anthea laughed. "You know, you're starting to look like wallpaper yourself, all alone out here in the hallway. Will you come dance?"

The slapdash fake illness speech was quickly forgotten as Mycroft considered the possibility of spending the night with Anthea. Would he rather accompany her and pay the small price of occasional conversation, or shut himself up in the old, damp study again under false pretense? The decision was effortless.

"Only if you accept my waltzing for what it truly is - monstrous, considering I haven't practiced since the Versailles Cotillion last summer."

"You? At a cotillion?" Anthea's eyebrows shot up. "Weren't you dreadfully miserable?"

"I was," Mycroft sighed, extending his arm. "But I should like to think that, at the time, had a more amiable partner presented herself, I would have enjoyed it."

Anthea couldn't help herself; she blushed. "And you say your waltz is out of practice."

"Oh, dreadfully so, in that I may make an idiot of myself with my left feet," he said, sounding quite dismayed and even a little embarrassed (or, at least, Anthea liked to think so).

"I find that hard to believe," she said as they claimed an empty spot on the floor. "But just in case you're right, this ridiculous skirt will hide any mistakes of ours." She gave the tulle a disapproving yank, and smiled.

"Ours? You're much too hard on yourself." Mycroft looked surprised.

"An awkward bird like me, going months at a time without practice? It's a regular recipe for disaster!"

Mycroft listened patiently until the little self-shaming was over, then answered with "I don't think so," and twirled her around so gracefully that she really couldn't have argued, even if she had wanted to.

**ooooo**

The first dance came and went, as did the second, and the third had just begun when Sherlock felt a tap on his shoulder. He and Molly spun around to find John standing behind them, Mary by his side.

"Sherlock? A word?" The doctor asked politely, and the detective excused himself, leaving Mary and Molly together.

"What's the matter?" Molly asked nervously.

"I'm not quite sure. John didn't say," Mary said. "I don't think anything's wrong, though, else he'd have been in a much larger hurry."

"I hope so," Molly sighed, then brightened. "Speaking of John, how is he? He seems quite taken with you, Mary, really!" She added excitedly.

"Oh, don't fuss," Mary flushed. "He's sweet, as always. Myself, I'm much more interested in how you ended up with Sherlock. Here I was thinking you couldn't stand the man for more than five minutes, and the next thing I know you've danced twice already with no signs of stopping!"

Now, it was Molly's turn to blush. "I hate to be dramatic, but if you really must know, I suppose he 'rescued' me from that Moriarty. Have you met him yet?"

Mary's eyes widened. "Not _James_ Moriarty?"

Molly frowned. "The very same."

"Oh, John has told me such _dreadful_ things about that man! Apparently, he's quite frequently involved in Sherlock's cases, often on the bad side of things, and he feeds the papers lies about both Sherlock and John to destroy their reputation. Fortunately, Sherlock's brother always intervenes before the articles can reach any printing offices. He works for the government," she added, by way of explanation.

"Thank goodness for Mycroft Holmes," Molly said. "And I shall consider myself quite lucky if I never see that lying bastard Jim ever again!"

"Molly! Such language, and we're at a _party_!' Mary tried to look offended, but ended up giggling instead. "And even if all of _that_ wasn't enough to convince you, he interrupted our conversation once during a dance and asked for my hand. I said yes - I didn't want to cause a scene, us being John's guests - but John practically _chased_ him out of the room, making threats and swearing!"

Molly laughed. "Can you blame him? His mortal enemy asks for the hand of his bride-to-be - what else is he supposed to do?"

"Bride-to-be? Mortal enemy? What happened to avoiding dramatics?" Mary asked, blushing a deep shade of pink.

"It's just a thought," Molly replied, as the two men began to walk back towards them.

"Ready, Mary?" John asked, and Molly smiled at the affection with which the words were said.

"I'll see you later, Molly," Mary waved to her sister before following John, who was already striding determinedly towards Mycroft and Anthea.

"Anything can happen!" Molly called after her, receiving a quick "Shhh!" in return. She smiled, and Sherlock watched her gaze adoringly at the happy couple.

She really was beautiful.

The words came to him in an instant. _You. Look. Beautiful. Tonight._ A compliment, simple yet meaningful. Easy. He mustered up all of the courage he could find, running a nervous hand through his curls.

"Molly -" he began, but was cut off by a sneer from behind him.

"Didn't expect to see you here, Holmes," the voice scoffed. "Come to deduce the guests, have you?" Then, in a kinder tone, "Molly. You are enjoying the ball, I hope?"

"Yes, Philip, very much. Hello, Sally," Molly greeted the two as Sherlock whirled around.

"Anderson," he snarled, but he quickly remembered that he'd have to maintain his composure to remain in good standing with Molly, who was now watching the scene curiously. "What a pleasant surprise," he managed to say, gritting his teeth. "And who is this?" He asked, gesturing towards Sally.

Anderson looked slightly taken aback; however, he turned to introduce her. "Sherlock Holmes, Sally Donovan. Sally, this is Sherlock."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes. I've heard quite a lot about you," Sally smiled, doing her best to act amiably when in truth she felt exceedingly uncomfortable around the detective. Varying accounts of the man's personality had been unsettling, to say the least, and she felt it necessary to keep her distance.

"Have you? Good things, I hope," the detective grinned, and at that moment Anderson considered himself officially terrified. As far as he knew, the only times Sherlock tried to be polite were when he wanted to gain access to a crime scene, when John was irritated with him, or when he was feeling particularly threatening, as a warning. Who _knows_ when the man was going to snap? Anderson certainly didn't want to be present when _that_ happened.

"But of course," Sally replied, and Molly frowned at Anderson, who had suddenly turned quite pale.

"Philip? Whatever is the matter?" She asked. Sherlock smiled smugly right at him, prompting the man's eyes to widen in fear.

"I... I've just realized that in all the excitement, I've completely forgotten to introduce myself to your brother, Mr. Holmes!" Anderson stammered, though the statement was not, in fact, a total lie. He hadn't met Mycroft yet, it was true, but he hadn't really _wanted_ to, either. If Sherlock was anything to go by, Anderson truly hoped he'd _never_ meet him. One Holmes was more than enough.

"Oh! Mustn't forget about Mycroft," Molly laughed. "Please, say hello to Anthea for me when you see her, will you?"

"I shall make it a priority to do so," Anderson smiled nervously. "If you'll excuse us."

"It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Holmes. Bye, Molly," Sally said over her shoulder as Anderson dragged her away.

"I'll see you soon, Sally!" Molly called after her friend. When they were out of earshot, she shook her head. "Well, _that_ was a bit strange."

"Shame, really. I would have liked to have had a chat with them," Sherlock said, grinning. He had now officially outsmarted both Moriarty _and_ Anderson on the same night, and all for Molly!

Things could not possibly be any more perfect.

"Another waltz, Mr. Holmes? That is, only if you aren't sick of me yet."

Strike that.

**ooooo**

She hadn't realized the time. There were so many people to talk to, and so much gossip to spread, and Janine had been so very busy chatting with everybody that she simply hadn't noticed. And now, as she had learned from Mary Hudson, Sherlock had been dancing with that mousy Molly _all night_ and there was simply _no_ time to fix that, _none_.

She thought he wouldn't show. When he seemed so resolutely averse to socializing and balls in general, why would she _possibly_ expect him to show up at _this_ one? But show up he did, and if she didn't do something quite soon, he might actually become _smitten_ with that waif.

She hid behind Anthea, who was politely listening to another of Anderson's stories about his 'brilliant deductions' while Mycroft tried very hard not to roll his eyes at every other word. From here, she had a clear view of the... _couple_. (How she _hated_ that word so!)

Damn it.

She was too late. Sherlock was already quite obviously infatuated. However, Janine thought she might have a chance at distracting Molly, if only because the girl hadn't taken much of a liking to the detective during her stay.

Yes, she would keep an eye on mousy Molly, and planned to approach her when she stopped dancing with Sherlock.

That is, _if_ the wretch ever stopped dancing with Sherlock.

An hour later, Janine abandoned her efforts, instead refocusing her energy towards learning as much as she possibly could about the detective and his work from Lestrade. She'd impress him yet.

It was only a matter of time.

**ooooo**

Midnight fell upon four couples, four separate attendees and one sulking villain, none of whom ever wanted the ball to end. There were still too many dances to ask for, too much chatting to do, and too many consulting detectives to ruin (okay, maybe there really weren't too many of those, but still). However, John Watson, as host, had previously declared midnight the official ending of the event, and it was with heavy hearts that the two parties split once again.

Letters were promised to be written, dinners and luncheons and teas were planned, and future balls were heavily recommended by all. Mrs. Hudson tried her best to stall the carriages by first wailing that one driver had blatantly forgotten the directions back to St. Bart's, and then by shrieking that one of the horses was undoubtedly exhibiting symptoms of West Nile and could not possibly pull an entire carriage full of people. John, who politely sent the family on their merry way anyway, was not amused.

Molly spent the entire trip home thinking. About the ball, about Jim, about Mary and John, about Sherlock. She continued to think as the carriage pulled up to the dark front drive. When she had finally made it into bed, she found she couldn't sleep, and so she thought some more.

By the time morning arrived, Molly had decided upon three things: First, that Mary and John were destined to be married within the year. Second, that Jim Moriarty was an evil liar who belonged with the scum of the Earth. Third, that she had defended Sherlock Holmes against said scum, and had found the detective to be interesting, incredibly brilliant, possibly the slightest bit handsome, and she'd be a liar, too, if she didn't acknowledge her dangerous state of affairs.

Sherlock was strangely, unexplainably _different_ that night. When John advised him to eat something before he retired, the detective consumed an entire apple without question. Afterwards, in his bedroom and wrapped in his dressing gown, he neatly folded his suit and left it in a sturdy little pile outside of his door, to be picked up in the morning. Still feeling strangely energetic, he then gleefully tackled the dangerous task of sorting all of his precariously stacked lab notes and analyses into neat, like-minded collections.

When Mycroft walked by the open door half an hour later and noticed the flurry of activity, he paused to stand in the doorway, unnoticed, and observe his younger brother. Under any other circumstances, the elder Holmes would ignore Sherlock, not wanting to get involved, but that night he watched the detective silently for a good fifteen minutes. He hadn't realized it at first, but his little brother wasn't simply running from pile to pile, oh, no. He was _dancing_.

Waltzing about the room, dipping down gracefully to pluck the appropriate papers up off of the floor and depositing them onto various piles without, it seemed, any thought. Furthermore, while he waltzed, Sherlock hummed. He hummed violin pieces, all of which Mycroft easily recognized from the orchestra's selections that night, and he hummed with a smile the likes of which Mycroft had not seen since he was twelve.

After the fifteen minutes had passed, Mycroft grinned and shook his head, retiring to his own room. Unbeknownst to him, John had witnessed the very same phenomena not ten minutes before he had, and both men marveled at the prospect of their little, incredible detective in love.

**ooooo**

_There. A much nicer ending to our ball, don't you think? _

_On a side note, thank you all for your lovely reviews! I adore hearing from you, and your support never fails to amaze me._

_While we're on the subject, in response to previous reviews:_

_Pipsis: Thank you! And it seems to me that without drugs, Mr. Hudson just wouldn't be Mr. Hudson!_

_Black Night: Thank you for the motivation to finish the ball - I had originally planned on going further, but was afraid to, lest things get boring. I appreciate the criticism and advice, and can't thank you enough!_

_Katanafleet: Thank you so much! (Won't happen again, promise.)_

_Cantuono: Yes, well, you know Jim... Always dropping in at precisely the wrong moment!_

_The-Scorpio-Holmes-Sister-221B: Thank you! (Jim is offended anyway.)_

_Next chapter... Things will be formatted a little differently. I'm afraid that's all I can say, else I'll spoil the surprise!_

_Yours,_

_~London Belle_


	17. Chapter 16

_Author's Note: This chapter is epistolary, or composed almost entirely of letters and notes. To show the passage of time, each entry will be dated, even though dates have not been included in the story thus far. In keeping with this story's model and to simplify things, I'm following the timeline of Pride and Prejudice. To get you started, the ball at Scotland Yard happened in late November, and so the letters will begin in early December, about two weeks afterwards. Enjoy!_

**ooooo**

_December 8th_

Dearest Mary,

Thank you so very much for your attendance last month. Everyone had such a delightful time! We are so incredibly glad you came, for you always lift our spirits - John and Anthea send their thanks, as well.

I write, sadly, to tell you that as of yesterday, we have officially left Scotland Yard for London. Regrettably, we were not able to visit Saint Bart's before our departure, though we miss you already with all of our hearts.

Originally, our trip was meant as a short business venture to accept a very large case Sherlock and John had received here in the smoke and smog, but unfortunately the matter will require extensive research and time, and so we will not be returning this winter. However, I am delighted to find many friends who have also come to London for the season, and therefore endeavor to try and enjoy myself, homesick as I may already be. Our entire family wishes you and yours a truly Merry Christmas, and we hope your holiday proves to be a pleasant one. I myself am sure you all will be much too happy to notice our absence, but advise the consumption of gingerbread as an excellent cure for loneliness.

As I write, my brother and Sherlock are off and about the city, something about 'exploring' or 'rediscovering' and some such nonsense. Sometimes I think they're more fond of London than they are of us, and that maybe the work will always come first, no matter what. But then, Mary, I remember our lovely time in the country and the fun we've had, and I think that they will always have a space in their hearts for poor things like us.

So you can tell your friends some purely elegant London news, we shall be hosting another party at our current residence in honor of the boys' return. Honestly, I'd no idea they had such a following; you really should see the fuss! Apparently, 'Sherlock Holmes' is synonymous with this funny hat they all call a 'deerstalker' (honestly, it's the _ugliest_ thing I've ever seen), and John is a widely admired 'bachelor'. My brother, a fawned-over bachelor, can you _imagine_? The roses he gets on the doorstep every day, and the love letters - oh, those are really the worst! Awful poetry, horrific attempts at romantic prose... They're almost laughable! Then again, everyone's a critic - and John takes it all so good-naturedly, even when there's another party just around the corner.

Quickly, before I go, as it seems they've just returned for luncheon, I must tell you my hope for John. Mary, is it too much to wish he'd marry? There really are so very many nice girls here, all well-mannered, accomplished, and very pretty, that I do believe he stands a fair chance. Maybe I shall play matchmaker... If only you were here to help me!

And with that, I've been summoned to the table - thank you again for your lovely hospitality and company, and we do hope to see you all again soon. I sincerely hope you and I may continue our correspondence through letters, if you should feel so inclined, for the 'big city' shall never feel like a home to me as much as our beloved Yard. A Merry Christmas to you, and if we do not write again before, a marvelous New Year!

Yours,

Janine

**ooooo**

_December 9th_

Mary, please, won't you come out? Or at least, let me in? It's a horrible letter, and Janine is truly awful to hurt you like that, but you must believe me when I tell you she is lying. The exaggeration, the boasting - she doesn't approve of you, and wishes John might find someone else. Furthermore, she's followed him to London to keep him there, and now she's trying very hard to convince you that he does not care for you, and most likely that he never has. She isn't blind, quite the opposite - had she seen half as much love in Sherlock for herself, she would have ordered her wedding dress the very same day. He'll return, I'm sure of it - you mustn't lose hope.

Will you think about it? Luncheon is in half an hour, and we miss you.

-Molly

The letter made things quite clear, Molly. If I am to be considered poor and stupid, then so be it. Janine was direct; I was misled, and apparently John would prefer to spend his days solving crimes in London with Sherlock. Besides, even if he did care for me, his entire family does not, and so it is for the best.

I lock myself in my room purely as a formality, for I do not think I could bear it if I were held and coddled with sympathy at the moment. You may enjoy luncheon without me.

-Mary

**ooooo**

_December 11th_

Dear Sally,

Things in London have picked up at a truly phenomenal pace! We've already received a huge number of cases, and the list grows longer every day. With the entire team back together again, I think we can handle the demand, as long as Sherlock continues to stay away from my crime scenes.

I do so wish you could have come with us - are you sure you won't be able to visit? Lestrade and I aren't staying with the others; we have our own apartments, and while it's nice, it tends to feel a little lonely. I could even send money for the cab fare, if necessary...

Anyway, if you should want to make any plans for the future, the Watsons are hosting another party, to which I have been so kindly invited. They've invited some other friends from the city, as well - all sorts of people, from high society to a few others from our division. It's going to be great fun, and I believe my ticket allows for a guest!

I do wish I could write more, as there really is so much else to tell you, but as it is I've got six cases' worth of evidence to catalogue, three different sets of fingerprints to analyze, five lab tests to run - you get the idea. I hope all is well with you and yours, and I look forward to your next letter.

Sincerely,

Philip

**ooooo**

_December 13th_

Addressed to: Philip Anderson, London Force, 6th Division under Gregory Lestrade

I am so very glad your ventures in London have taken off, and that your trip was not taken in vain. It sounds terribly exciting, but you must promise to save some thought for those of us back at home with only sewing and reading to keep us company! And I'm glad Sherlock has left you alone - seems to me he'd have bigger matters to attend to, being famous and all.

Though I'd love to come to London, I'm afraid I can't. I haven't the money for the travelling fare, and besides, my parents will not allow me to travel alone. As I haven't yet found someone willing to come with me, we'll have to put the idea on hold. It would be so lovely to attend the party, though... I'll write to the Hudsons and ask if they might like a holiday.

I wish I had something as exciting to tell you, but it's really been very quiet lately. Everyone is preparing for Christmas, and I think it's the Hudsons' turn to host this year, so I'll bet they're starting on their Pollyanna gifts.

Oh! There's an idea - wouldn't it be marvelous to get everyone together for Christmas? A holiday party would do everyone such good, and I'm sure the girls would agree, if only we could all find funds for the cab fare. And to see London all lit up in the snow! Of course, you're very busy, I'm sure, and if we'd be an inconvience in any way, you simply _must_ let us have the party here! We'd add you all to the Pollyanna, to be sure, and... It strikes me now that I'm getting a little carried away, but I would so love to see everyone together again for the holiday.

Well, I had better end before I get to scheming up a New Year's Masquerade Ball (oh, what fun that would be!) or something of the sort - I wish you and Gregory luck, and I can't wait to hear about your next case! (What did you tell me your famous phrase was? Something about 'the game'?)

Yours,

Sally

**ooooo**

_December 16th_

I didn't want Mother overhearing any speculations concerning John (she's been dreadful this week, don't you agree?), and so I have resigned myself to petty note-passing again.

Have you still heard nothing? I've visited the post three times this week, and there hasn't been anything new. Not that silence is any reason to grow despondent, but I do wish someone would write. It's becoming frightfully lonely without our neighbors, and I miss all of the excitement that came with having a party to look forward to every so often.

I'll check again tomorrow, if you'd like to take a walk with me.

-Molly

I haven't heard from anyone, either - and I agree. This waiting business is simply terrible, and though I know we promised to stay cheerful the whole thing is beginning to bother me again. It's a horrid thing to admit, especially when I know he's got other things to do and other girls to see, but... I miss him, Molls, and I wish he'd write. I've tried writing to him myself, but all of my letters sound so very silly that I end up piling them into the wastepaper basket before I've written one paragraph.

Furthermore, I know you've given me very nice reasons to prove that Janine is lying, but honestly I'm beginning to reconsider things. She was just so nice throughout the entire time I knew her, and not just to me but to everyone. I don't think she's quite entirely capable of constructing such gossip, even if she really wanted to. Maybe it's ridiculous to say so, but the thought has crossed my mind more than once.

(And I swear, if Mother asks me why I've taken my wedding ring off one more time, I'm going to have a complete fit!)

-Mary

**ooooo**

_December 17th_

Addressed to: Mycroft Holmes, Longbourne Inn, Rosings Lane, Room 5

I've been gone less than a month and already you've managed to change your identity? Here I was, sitting at my desk with my pen and about to write to you, when I just so happened to ask John for the address where I might be able to reach you. He in turn asked Sherlock, who dramatically swore he knew absolutely nothing about your 'domestic habits' and cared to keep it that way. It took me twenty minutes to get the information out of him, if you really must know, and then I find out you're staying in a run-down hotel? As if! That sort of behavior requires a scolding, and so here you go:

Mycroft Holmes! Disappearing off of the face of the Earth is _no_ way to treat a lady, and dirty inns are no place for dashing government diplomats. I demand you have our housekeeper open up a room for you in Scotland Yard _this instant_! (Besides, we need something to come back to when we eventually escape this dreadful smoke, and who better to keep it warm for us while we're gone?)

When do you leave for Paris? Oh, I've always wanted to go - I wish with all my heart I could join you. Such a pretty city, and at least _there_ the air is _breathable_. And think of all the sights you'll get to see, should you ever have an hour to yourself: the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Seine - I could go on, really.

But I'm forgetting myself, yet again. I'm sure you'll want to hear some news from London, though I'm afraid there isn't much to tell. Sherlock and John are off at all odd hours of the day, while poor Gregory and Philip try their best to keep up. Meanwhile, we ladies sit at home and sew or read or pretend to look useful, when all we're really good for is lying on couches and dressing up for evening parties. (Shh, don't tell - it's a secret!)

If I were you, I'd wish this pen had run out long ago, seeing as it hasn't written anything gripping or exciting. Oh, well. I promise to try harder next letter - you _will_ write back, won't you? The idea of showing your brother the envelope makes me laugh. And, of course, I'd also love to hear from you. Strictly business, you understand.

Yours,

Anthea

P.S. Why exactly are you going to Paris again?

P.P.S. If you can't tell me, make something up.

**ooooo**

_December 21st_

Dear Mary,

Let me begin by writing on behalf of my brother. John was adamant that I include his sincerest apologies and again express his remorse on the subject of our abrupt departure; we all feel terrible about not being able to stop by before we left. Unfortunately, at the last minute the coach schedules were changed, and our extra hour (which had originally been meant for saying good-bye) was rather unceremoniously crushed beneath the horses' hooves. He sends his best to you all, as does Anthea.

On to London, then - Oh, there's simply so very much to tell you! Between the parties, the cases, and our new neighbors, we've hardly had any time to ourselves! You should see the place: people running in and out, doors slamming, the hustle and bustle. But I digress; I see no better place to start than with our happy announcement. We have officially unpacked the last trunk, and find ourselves delightfully settled in for a long winter! Though this tiny townhouse is not nearly as fine as our Yard, I think it shall be tolerable after the new furniture arrives. You would have loved to help me decorate - I found such lovely pieces, from a luxurious red couch for the parlor to the perfect set of drawers for my bedroom. Honestly, it's as if a princess lives here, and not plain little me!

Perhaps the most exciting news of all is not about me, but about Sarah, a lovely girl who just so happens to live across the street from us. She is incredibly pretty, sweet-tempered, and intelligent, with an extensive medical education (If you don't believe me, you can ask Sherlock - he once discussed blood types with her for an entire hour and a half!). She's accomplished as well, excelling in piano, embroidery, knitting - she even does her own housework, can you imagine? Anyway, we've all taken an immense liking to her, especially John. Poor thing - I think he's falling head over heels for her. He's offered to be her escort at the last three parties we've attended, taken walks with her around the garden at least four times (and that's just this week), and yesterday I caught him visiting her to ask if she'd care to take a carriage ride with him around town. Not that I mind; she's perfect for him, really, and besides, maybe he's finally found the one! Oh, wouldn't that be grand? I'll start designing the invitations tomorrow - what do you think, lilac for the bridesmaids, or pale blue?

There's the door - we're expecting a few couples from across town for dinner tonight. Unfortunately, that means my letter must draw to an end - give the girls my love!

Love,

Janine

**ooooo**

_December 21st_

Molly, have you read it? It's only just arrived.

-Mary

Read what?

-Molly

Here - I'll slip it under. And before you say anything, I'm fine. Really, I am.

-Mary

Mary, open this door!

-Molly

No. I told you, I'm absolutely fine.

-Mary

Mary, you are most definitely not "absolutely fine," and I don't expect you to be. That Janine and her nasty letters... She gets worse by the day! But here, there's something you've missed - see her reason for not saying goodbye? That the carriage schedule was changed? Go back and look at the first letter. There, she says they couldn't come because Sherlock had received an urgent case that was too important to miss. So you see? She is lying, after all!

Now will you open the door?

-Molly

Only if you promise to do your best to keep that letter away from Mother.

-Mary

Cross my heart.

-Molly

Then I will.

And Molly? It's petty and stupid and childish, but the worst part about that letter?

My favorite color is lilac; I've told her so.

-Mary

**ooooo**

_December 24th_

Addressed to: Anthea Watson, Netherfield Estate, London

You have my sincerest apologies. I had asked Sherlock to tell you where I was staying for the time being, but obviously my little brother did not think the information pertinent enough to share. On the subject of Scotland Yard, I appreciate your kind offer, but I must decline in the interest of efficiency. I will be travelling to Europe for an extended period quite soon, and a running household would not fare well in my absence.

In regards to news from London, you are correct; it is always pleasant for me to hear that my brother has evaded yet another dangerous criminal. You've seen his work, you know his tendency to find himself in peril, and though he may tell you otherwise, I worry about him. Constantly. I assume it is also beneficial to you and your family to know that John is safe; likewise, to hear that Sherlock is back at Netherfield creates for me a temporary peace of mind. Not many others will tell you that, I suppose.

You wrote in your last letter that I must have wished your pen had run out whilst you were writing; I will say I did no such thing. I will, however, say that I wished you had written more, as it is a delight to hear from you. In response to your final question, I will (obviously) reply, and I hope to continue to do so until we may meet again.

I have but one question to ask, and will do so now, lest I forget. While I understand you have just changed residences and must therefore be extremely busy, I would like to inquire after your plans for the next few weeks. If you would please include the information in your next letter, I would be much obliged. Thank you.

Fondly,

Mycroft Holmes

P.S. It occurs to me that tonight is Christmas Eve. I wish you a very Merry Christmas, and I suppose I am required to ask you to give the family my best.

P.P.S. I sincerely hope you did not neglect to show Sherlock my envelope.

**ooooo**

_December 24th_

Any letters today?

-Mary

None, and don't ask me to come with you to check because I've checked twice today already.

-Molly

Are you sure? Nothing?

-Mary

Yes, I'm sure - why? Were you expecting something?

-Molly

No, no, I was just wondering.

-Mary

Mary, that must be the worst lie I've ever heard, and we're writing. Is it John? Because you do realize the only reason he hasn't written is because of Janine; it's nothing to do with you.

-Molly

No, no, it's not about me, I'm fine. Actually, I was rather hoping Sherlock might have written to you, but he must have a case.

-Mary

And why, might I ask, would he have bothered to write to me?

-Molly

No reason; I just thought that you two got along so very well together, and... Oh, don't be cross with me, Molls, but all of us think you both seem, well, a bit fond of each other.

-Mary

All of us? Who might 'we' be? And don't be ridiculous, Mary. We talked for a little while and danced a few times, it isn't as if I left with a dozen roses and a ring! I think 'we' are making quite a fuss over nothing. And besides, Sherlock is a London celebrity - he's far too busy to write to a peasant like me.

-Molly

'We' is Irene, myself, and Mother. Just us. Promise. And I'm here if you want to talk about it.

-Mary

Not Mother... Has she already tasted the wedding cake? And I don't believe you're telling me the truth, again. It's not just the three of you, I'm sure of it.

-Molly

Mother is much more interested in John, though she does think you two would make a lovely couple. And 'we' might also include Anthea. And John. And Gregory. And quite possibly Mycroft, as well. Basically everyone, only we didn't want you to find out. Please, Molly, will you write to him? Anthea and Mycroft keep sending me letters saying that Sherlock talks about you all the time. It may sound somewhat strange, but Anthea is convinced he misses you, and Gregory swears on his badge that even the slightest mention of your name puts him in a frighteningly sunny mood. I think you ought to, even if it's just to see what happens.

-Mary

That's very nice, Mary, but you're all mistaken. Sherlock is in London now, and he's working - he doesn't need me bothering him when he has cases to solve.

-Molly

Please? Just a note? A line? Something?

-Mary

What could I possibly have to say to him?

-Molly

I didn't want to have to do this, but you leave me no choice. I pity him, Molly. He may be in London and he may have cases and he may have his friends, but he has no one to write to. And before you say anything, I know that Anthea gets letters from me and from Mycroft, and Janine has some from me and some from Irene, and even Anderson gets some from Sally, so Sherlock is the only one with nobody to send him anything - Heaven knows Mycroft certainly doesn't try. You don't think it gets depressing, having to watch everyone else smile and rush to the post every day? And you know it would make him so very happy to have something from you, of all people.

You don't have to send anything today; just think about it. Please?

-Mary

**ooooo**

Molly sat at her desk, gazing out of her window at the freshly fallen snow. It was Christmas morning, and what did she have to show for it? A pen, some ink, and a wastebasket overflowing with crumpled up pieces of paper. She sighed, resting her chin on her hands. Mary was an adept when it came to guilt, and this was certainly no different. The image of a moody and pensive Sherlock folded into an armchair, glaring daggers at everyone who passed by with a letter in hand made her stomach twist into a series of painful knots, and the thought of him hoping every day to find a letter from her was even worse. She played the scenes in her head over and over again until she heard a soft pat, almost inaudible. Glancing down at the paper in front of her, Molly was shocked to find a tiny wet spot right in the center of the paper. Hastily drawing a sleeve across her eyes, she picked up her pen and examined it. Did she want to write him a letter? She wasn't sure. But she did know she longed to see an envelope in the post with that elongated scrawl on it for her, and so she dipped the pen in ink and began to write.

She may not be entirely fond of the man at the moment, but she was damned if she was going to ruin his Christmas.

**ooooo**

_I apologize for the unusually long delay! Now that school has started up again, I may not be posting as frequently, but I'm going to try and get chapters written as quickly as possible. (I appreciate your patience!)_

_In response to previous reviews:_

_Pipsis: Thank you very much! I'm so glad it was worth it!_

_The-Scorpio-Holmes-Sister-221B: Eventually, yes. I have to say, writing love struck Sherlock is much more fun than I thought - and I'm so glad you loved it!_

_Cantuono: Thank you! How nice of you to say!_

_Black Night: Thank you for the inspiration and motivation to continue! Yes, Molly is just a little bit of a pushover, but it's only to condense the story a bit. We'll be moving fairly quickly from here on out - it's so nice to see you're enjoying the story! (Again, thank you!)_

_OpalSkyLoveDivine: Can I tell you a secret? It's my favorite, too! And that's a huge task, to move out of state - I hope everything goes well for you, and thank you so much!_

_Until next chapter,_

_~London Belle_

_P.S. Should I write another epistolary chapter in the future, or would you rather see prose? _


	18. Chapter 17

"Molly?" Mary asked, making her way downstairs. Irene dashed ahead of her, laughing and opening her purse as she landed in the foyer.

"Hurry up, Mary! I think I have just enough to buy that lovely new silk I've been wanting - oh, do you think you could sew it for me if I gave it to you?"

"If you behave," Mary promised, ducking into the parlor. Molly was reclining on the sofa by the window, reading a book. "Irene and I are taking a trip in town for a few things," she began. "Do you need anything?"

Molly glanced up and shook her head. "Not today, thank you. I did my own shopping yesterday, while you were sewing with Mother."

"Oh, that was _awful_," Mary shuddered. "I'd ask her a question about finishing one stitch or another, and she'd find some excuse to turn the answer around into begging me to invite John to come and stay with us for a few days."

Molly frowned. "Do you want me to talk to her?"

"No, it's fine. She can't help herself; she gets excited, as any mother would."

"I suppose, but if you ever need help, ask."

"I will; I always do," Mary smiled gratefully, then frowned as she watched her younger sister. "Anything in the post today?"

"No," Molly said casually, but the answer was clipped. "It was empty, last I checked."

"I'll check again on our way home," Mary said, and wasn't surprised when Molly nodded silently in reply. "He will, Molly. I promise."

"Go, go, you're keeping Irene waiting," Molly waved her hand in dismissal. "Make sure she doesn't buy too many chocolates again."

"I won't!" Irene called back. "I don't think I'll be able to, seeing as I won't have anything left after that pretty silk is mine! We'll see you soon, Molls!"

Mary gave her sister a final concerned gaze before leaving for the open front door. "Bye, Molly," she added over her shoulder.

Silence.

**ooooo**

Roughly an hour or so later, Molly heard a knock at the door, which was promptly answered by her mother. Mrs. Hudson had kept careful watch over the front door ever since Scotland Yard had been vacated, and leapt to answer every call so she could personally affirm that the visitor was not, in fact, John Watson. (She would also be happy to see a certain consulting detective show up one day soon, but she knew said detective was far too shy to be caught dead visiting Molly alone.) Her disappointment was visible upon opening the door to find one Gregory Lestrade, but she quickly turned curious when he said he had come to see Molly, if she was presently available.

"Molly, dear," Mrs. Hudson said excitedly, entering the parlor after situating Greg comfortably in the foyer. "Gregory Lestrade is here to see you."

"Oh! How lovely of him to visit," Molly smiled. Her mother stared blankly back at her, prompting her to frown and ask "Is something wrong?"

"Well," Mrs. Hudson began casually. "Your dress... It isn't _nearly_ as becoming as that yellow one you wore last Wednesday. Couldn't you change?"

"Mother!" Molly groaned, hoisting herself up off of the sofa. "Do you know? I think I'll go and say hello."

"As you wish, dear," Mrs. Hudson called after her, shaking her head.

"Gregory! What a surprise!" Molly grinned, rushing to greet her guest before her mother could meddle any longer. "I thought you were still in London?"

"I was, but a case turned up nearby, so I thought I'd drop in for a chat. I hope I'm not in the way?"

"No, not at all! Please, have a seat." Molly tried to show Greg into the parlor, but he shook his head.

"There's news from London," he muttered anxiously.

Molly nodded her head in understanding and instead brought Greg to the study, closing the doors behind them. "It isn't soundproof, but it should suffice."

"Thank you," Greg smiled gratefully at her. "You see, I don't actually have a case on, haven't had one in weeks, what with Sherlock running around and all; but I had to come and see you to tell you about John. Molly, he's miserable!"

Molly sighed. "Gregory Lestrade, explain yourself."

"He's a wreck," Greg began, pacing across the floor and running his hands through his hair. "Cases are coming in like mad, and even though he and Sherlock are never a day without a new criminal to catch, he can hardly enjoy himself because of Janine. I used to like that girl, I really did, but now... And he _pines_, Molly; it's bloody awful. 'Do you think she'll remember me?' 'I wish she would write,' 'Do you remember the ball, Greg? We danced for hours.' " The DI fluttered his hands in the air while doing his best impression of the doctor.

"I knew it!" Molly cried, startling him. "She sends letter after letter to Mary describing how perfectly lovely London is and how happy John is and how many girls he has lining up to see him. Most recently, she's written about some girl named Sarah who lives across the street, and she even told us John might _marry_ her!"

"John, marry _Sarah_?" Greg scoffed. "How ridiculous! Sarah does live across the street and she's very nice, but John likes to talk with her about medical subjects, is all. I'm sure he only does it to gain a perspective other than Sherlock's. You know _him_: He'd go on for hours, if you let him."

"Thank goodness! Oh, Mary will be _so_ very happy!" Molly enthused, ignoring that last bit.

"How has she been lately?" Greg asked, curious. If he was ever going to find out the other side of the situation, now was the time.

"She's been the same," Molly said in earnest. "She's gone from leaping up to answer the doorbell every time it rings to spending her days up in her room or in the parlor, reading and trying to write to him. She wants to, she really does, but she thinks everything she says is rubbish and tosses the letters out before she's gotten halfway through! It's very bad, Greg - she can't even say his name anymore, she's so upset, and she avoids the topic whenever possible."

Greg nodded slowly. "If that's the case," he said, choosing his words carefully. "Then what do you say we send Mary on a holiday? I'll take her back to London with me, and try to get her mind off of things. It might do her some good."

Molly's eyes lit up. "Would you do that, really? She'd have such a wonderful time, and seeing John might -"

"Molly," Greg interrupted firmly, "I don't think they should see each other; that's not what I'm suggesting. I live closer to the station than anywhere else, so it's very unlikely they will ever meet, but even if I _did _live nearby, I'd still think it was a bad idea. Janine is incredibly protective of John now that she's finally gotten him away from Mary, and she'll tear your sister apart if she so much as hears the smallest hint that she might be staying in town. Is that what you want?"

Molly sighed. "No, but are you sure you can't arrange something? A walk in the park, maybe? _Anything?"_

"The only way they'll meet is if they happen to run into each other while out on the streets," Greg said, and Molly gave him her most pitiful, melancholy "Okay".

Gregory Lestrade is not a pushover, oh no, but something about the entire situation created a knot of guilt in the pit of his stomach. He ran a hand through his hair and finally relented. "Alright, here's what I'll do. I'll send Mary into town on the pretense that I have a case. I'll take John out instead, and see if we can run into Mary. Does that work for you?"

Molly frowned. "It's a decent plan, but it's going to fail - Mary is too shy to let herself be alone with him again. You need to try harder... Can you find a way to get them both into a party without the others?"

"I'll see what I can do... If not, then I'll get Sherlock to host something; he's got space for hundreds over there on Bennet Street."

Molly beamed. "Did I ever tell you you're my favorite Detective Inspector?"

"It doesn't work if I'm your _only_ Detective Inspector," Greg muttered as he followed Molly out into the foyer.

"Can you at least _pretend_ it was a compliment?" Molly rolled her eyes and opened the front door. "Shoo, and pack yourself. Can you leave with her tomorrow?"

"You're _that_ anxious to get her out of the house?" Greg grinned. "I'll be here by eight."

"Thank you," Molly said, and for a moment Greg thought she looked relieved. "I'll see you tomorrow, then." She paused. "Are you sure about this?"

"You have nothing to worry about," Greg said stoically. "I promise." Molly smiled gratefully in return and waved goodbye as he stepped into the carriage waiting for him.

**ooooo**

Mary and Irene arrived two hours later, exhausted and carrying armfuls of shopping bags. Mrs. Hudson delighted in surveying the new purchases and was very pleased to see that her girls had made extremely flattering choices, while Irene continually gushed over her new pearl necklace that "went _ever _so perfectly with her eyes, don't you think?" Mary brought her things upstairs and immediately went to work putting them away, stopping only to say a quick hello to Molly and her mother. Molly followed, eager to break the news about the impending trip.

"Mary? May I come in?" She pushed open the door gently and found Mary examining one of her new dresses, a pretty lilac gown with a full skirt and extra tulle.

"What do you think?" Mary asked, holding the dress up in the mirror. "I bought it because I liked the color." The words sounded bitter, and Molly realized that this was going to be much harder than she had originally thought.

"It's beautiful!" Molly tried to sound cheery, but failed miserably. Instead, she sat down on the bed and patted the space next to her, into which Mary presently threw herself. "I'm sorry, Mary," she said. "I know it's hard. But I have some news that I think will cheer you up; Gregory dropped by while you were out, and he's invited you to go back to London with him tomorrow for a holiday!"

"I'm not really in much of a mood to enjoy a holiday," said Mary softly.

"Just think, Mary: the big city! You'll get to do lots of shopping, and there will be balls to attend and maybe Greg will even let you come on a case, if you ask nicely enough!"

"I suppose, but -"

"And remember that Gregory works with the police force; I'm sure that out of a hundred or so men, there's at least _one_ worth knowing," Molly laughed.

Mary sighed. "You're not going to take no for an answer, are you?" She asked with a tiny smile.

"Absolutely not," Molly said, grinning. "Come on, then, let's start packing; we've got a busy day ahead of us! Now, where's your trunk?"

Mary rolled her eyes. "Molly, do you even know _how_ to pack for a trip to London?"

Molly shrugged. "How hard could it be? Let's just pack all of your best; then you'll never be without the perfect dress. We'll start with the ivory one you bought last week, that simply has to come with you. And your hairpin, can't forget that!" She threw open the closet doors and started tossing things onto the bed in a messy pile, getting more excited with each dress. "And this navy one, of course! Where did you get _this_? It's perfect for a dinner party..."

Mary shook her head and sat down next to the growing heap in resignation, beginning to fold and pack the various dresses neatly in her trunk. She was reluctant to go, but she knew there was no changing her sister's mind. Still, something bothered her about leaving so suddenly; she felt a little dismayed at the thought of spending time away from home. How could she be homesick before she had even left?

Mary dodged to avoid a poorly aimed airborne shoe, bending down to pick up a stray scarf. Would she see Janine again? Anthea? Sherlock? Anderson? She thought she might enjoy socializing with her long-lost neighbors.

And John... Mary made up her mind about _him_ right then and there, stuffing the next dress into the trunk with extra force so as to finalize her decision. If she saw him, she would be polite and civil, and she resolved never to be the first to bring anything up. And if she didn't see him, then she didn't see him, and she was going to be happy with that. So there.

Fortunately for Mary, she's a terrible liar.

**ooooo**

Molly _really_ hadn't thought this through.

She was ecstatic to send Mary to London (possibly because no stroppy Detective Inspector could destroy her hopes of her sister's finding John again), but she didn't realize how very _empty _Saint Bart's felt when only occupied by three people.

She was also beginning to feel the strain of being locked up with said people all day. Irene was extremely cross about being left out of the trip, spending her days dressing up and stomping about the place to console herself. If only she might be allowed to go to town by herself, she complained,_ then_ she might find a husband, and didn't that appeal to Mother? But Mrs. Hudson held steadfast in her distrust, and let Irene out only if she brought someone with her. Some days it was Sally and sometimes Mrs. Hudson herself, but either way, Irene almost always got her way.

On the other hand, Mrs. Hudson continually bothered Molly about socializing _more_. Why didn't she go to a party with Sally, or why wasn't she attending the Morans' dinner soirées? Eventually, Molly fell into a depressing routine of checking the post for a letter from Mary, responding if the box happened to be full, and locking herself in any one room for the day to read.

Furthermore, Sherlock _still_ hadn't written back yet. Molly hated to admit it, but the fact nagged her, occasionally keeping her up at night. Sometimes, she tried to tell herself it was an error; that the postman had delivered her letter to the wrong address by mistake, and that it would take extra time to find its way to the proper house. Other times, she thought it was her own fault for not writing sooner or for writing so boring a letter that a genius wouldn't see any reason to compose a reply. Either way, she eventually stopped hoping for an answer and simply wondered _why_.

Five days into the nightmare, Molly was reading in her room when she heard someone at the door. She closed her book with a sigh and dragged herself down the steps, fully expecting to see Sally and listen to yet another plan for her next trip to town with Irene. However, she was shocked to find that the visitor was not Sally at all; nor was it anyone she had expected to see anytime soon.

"Hello, Molly! Did you miss me?" Jim Moriarty grinned.

Molly stood still for a moment, temporarily stunned. When she at last regained control of her brain, she smiled. "Jim! How lovely - please, come in!"

When they were comfortably situated in the parlor, Molly tilted her head in confusion. "It's been quite a while... What can I do for you?"

"Nothing, really," Moriarty said, smiling. "It's just that I heard about Sherlock and the rest of them moving off to London without saying so much as a simple goodbye, and I thought you might want some company."

"Oh," Molly said, still puzzled. On one hand, she didn't really think Moriarty had a valid reason for coming, and she should probably find a way to coerce him into leaving. Then again, she was curious and oh so dreadfully bored... "I won't lie; it gets lonely here without them, and now that Mary's gone off to London, the house feels practically empty."

"Mary? In London? Whatever for?" Moriarty feigned surprise. He couldn't be less interested, but keeping up appearances was important.

"She's on holiday with Gregory Lestrade," Molly explained, eager to finally talk to someone new. "We thought it might be nice for her to get away; clear her head."

"Is she alright?" Moriarty asked, and cringed at the sound of his own sympathy. Disgusting.

Molly knew it might not be wise to tell Jim_ everything,_ and so she told him _some_ things. Okay, _most _things. Maybe everything except her hopes that John and Mary would meet again.

And eventually, maybe those, too.

**ooooo**

Over the next two weeks, Moriarty continued to 'drop by' and console Molly, sometimes staying for hours at a time. She was grateful for the company, and the visits kept her mind off of the perpetually empty mailbox. Meanwhile, he was slowly and surely working his way into the family, perfecting his manners and chivalry until Mrs. Hudson and Irene were practically _begging_ him to come visit. And while it was definitely a new low for Jim Moriarty, the payoff would be worth it in the end, he was sure. Especially taking into account the whole London issue; tragic, really.

Soon, Molly was looking forward to Jim's company, and frequently found herself counting the days until she might see him again. However, she never told Mary - she wanted to wait until after Mary saw John again, and though she was growing more curious with each letter, her faith in Greg held strong.

Mrs. Hudson and Irene were thrilled with Molly's new debonair suitor; as far as they were concerned, each time Jim came might be the time he had a ring hidden away in his jacket pocket. Each tried to hurry the process in their own little way; Irene by prompting Molly to while away the hours recounting his 'charming conversation' and Mrs. Hudson by making sure that the two were left alone undisturbed for however long was necessary, whether that be one hour or three. Soon enough, the entire house forgot about Sherlock and John and only barely managed to hold onto Mary, entirely too wrapped up in Jim Moriarty to notice much of anything else.

**ooooo**

_London_

Janine was passing the foyer when she noticed it lying on the entryway table. A plain, white envelope, the words _Sherlock Holmes_ and the proper address written neatly on the front. And while she knew a great deal of Sherlock's cases came in the form of letters, something about this one was different.

She picked it up, examining it. Speaking from personal experience, she guessed it came from a woman, as the stationary was of nice quality and the handwriting was small, clean script. This made her even _more_ curious, as one didn't see Sherlock getting letters from women very often. The occasional case of a missing husband, maybe, but that didn't seem likely. Quickly checking to make sure the hall was still empty, she slipped the epistle into the sleeve of her dress and carried it with her to the study in search of a letter opener. She didn't usually open other people's mail, but she was only checking to be sure it wasn't an assassin's warning or a ransom note, and besides... Holding it up to the window wouldn't have worked; it was already dark.

She located the penknife with ease and split the envelope open quickly, removing the letter from inside. She read the two pages and then read them again, crumpling the empty envelope in disgust as she reached the end. This was no case, no overdramatic damsel in distress; this was _Molly_. Annoying, mousy Molly Hudson. And the letter didn't even say anything of importance; it was just a general Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and - I hope your _cases_ are going well? What did _she _know about his _cases?_ Did she have any idea of how much of Sherlock's time she was wasting? The man had things to do, people to save! He didn't have time to focus on needy little things like her, not when all of London expected him to solve their problems.

As Janine fumed, her gaze fell on the fire burning in the grate. She considered the letter and what might happen if Sherlock found it, and then what might happen if it were to somehow..._ Disappear._

Five minutes later, the blaze was burning just a little bit brighter, and a smug Janine was headed upstairs.

**ooooo**

_The case of the mysterious letter, solved! I promise to have the next chapter up soon - I hope to have it finished by the end of the week, latest._

_Thank you for all of the kind reviews - in my mind, there is no better motivation in the world!_

_OpalSkyLoveDivine: Thank you! And actually, that idea isn't half bad..._

_The-Scorpio-Holmes-Sister-221B: That's definitely a question for Sherlock - I'm sure he has the answer up there somewhere. And as for Janine, I hope she wasn't the source of too much arsenic this time around! _

_Black Night: Sounds like a plan - I definitely will be doing a few more letters in the future. Thank you!_

_Pipsis: Thank you! I hope this was enough of a reaction for you - and yes, school is tearing my writing schedule to pieces! _

_~London Belle_


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